Chapter 3 — Tess #2
"Tess."
"I'm just getting set up for the interviews," I say, not looking at him. "Is there a particular order you'd prefer for personnel?"
"Tess, we need to talk about last night."
"We agreed to talk today. I'm here. But right now I need to finish this assessment."
"That's not what I meant and you know it."
I finally look up at him. He's standing in the doorway, not quite inside the office, and there's something in his expression that makes my chest tight.
"What do you want me to say, James?"
"I want you to tell me what you're thinking. I want you to tell me why you left."
"Because I had to. Because we—" I stop, take a breath. "Because that shouldn't have happened."
"But it did."
"Yes. And now I have to finish assessing your station while everyone out there is probably wondering why their captain looks like he didn't sleep and why I'm wearing a scarf to hide the marks you left on my neck."
His eyes drop to my throat, and something hot flashes in them.
"I'm not sorry about those," he says, and his voice is rough.
"You should be."
"I'm not."
We stare at each other across the small space, and the tension is thick enough to choke on.
"This is exactly what I was afraid of," I say finally.
"Fourteen years ago, we couldn't figure out how to be together without it getting complicated.
And now we're right back there. Except this time I have a professional obligation to fulfill and you have a station to run, and neither of us can afford this to be complicated. "
"It's already complicated, Tess."
"Then we need to uncomplicate it."
"How?"
"By finishing this assessment and then going back to our separate lives and pretending this didn't happen."
The words taste like ash in my mouth, but I say them anyway. Because it's the smart thing. The safe thing. The thing that doesn't end with me getting hurt again.
James is quiet for a long moment.
"Is that what you want?" he asks finally.
No. The answer is no.
I want him to tell me that last night meant something. I want him to tell me he's thought about me for fourteen years the way I've thought about him. I want him to tell me I'm not crazy for feeling like this connection between us is something real.
But I can't say any of that. Because if I do, and he doesn't feel the same way, I don't know if I'll survive it.
"It's what makes sense," I say instead.
He looks at me like he's trying to read something in my expression, and I school my face into neutrality. Professional. Distant. Nothing like the woman who was gasping his name in the back of his truck less than twenty-four hours ago.
"Okay," he says finally. "If that's what you want..."
He leaves, and I'm alone in his office with my laptop and my files and the hollow feeling in my chest that says I just made a terrible mistake.
I try to focus on work. Pull up my interview template, review my notes from yesterday, prepare the questions I need to ask.
It doesn't help.
My mind keeps drifting back to last night. To the way he touched me like he'd been thinking about it for years. To the way he looked at me and told me I was beautiful. To the way he felt inside me, like he belonged there.
To the way he said I'm not sorry about those when talking about the marks on my neck, like he wanted everyone to know I was his.
Except I'm not his.
I never was.
At twenty I was a convenient distraction. At thirty-four I'm apparently still that, just with a different set of complications attached.
The thought makes my throat tight.
There's a knock on the door. Rhett, asking if I'm ready to start the personnel interviews.
I am absolutely not ready, but I say yes anyway.
The interviews are mechanical. I ask the questions on my list. I take notes. I maintain professional distance.
Travis goes first, answering every question with thoughtful precision. He's perceptive, though, and I catch him watching me with that quiet attention that suggests he knows something is off. He doesn't ask about it, which I'm grateful for.
Garrett goes second. Older, more reserved, less inclined to small talk. He gives concise answers about station operations, about James's leadership, about the crew dynamics. Everything he says confirms what I already knew, James runs a tight ship, the crew respects him, the station functions well.
"He's a good captain," Garrett says at one point. "Best I've worked under."
"What makes him effective?"
Garrett considers the question. "He leads by example. Doesn't ask anything of us he wouldn't do himself. And he pays attention. Notices when something's off, even when you're trying to hide it."
The words land differently than he probably intended.
By the time I finish the interviews, it's almost noon. My head hurts. My eyes are gritty from lack of sleep. And I still have the afternoon to get through.
I'm reviewing my notes when James appears in the doorway again.
"Lunch is ready," he says.
"I'm fine. I'll just work through."
"You need to eat."
"I said I'm fine."
"Tess—"
"Please don't." I don't look up from my laptop. "I'm trying very hard to be professional here. And if you keep looking at me like that, it's going to be a lot harder."
"Like what?"
"Like you're trying to figure out how to get me alone again."
The silence that follows is heavy.
"Would that be so bad?" he asks finally.
Yes. No. I don't know.
"I need to finish this assessment, James. That's all I can focus on right now."
He's quiet for another long moment, and then I hear his footsteps retreating down the hall.
I put my head in my hands and try very hard not to cry.
This is exactly what I was afraid of. That I'd come here and see him again and all the feelings I've spent fourteen years trying to bury would surface.
That I'd fall right back into wanting him.
That I'd let him touch me and it would feel like coming home and then I'd have to leave and spend another fourteen years wondering what if.
Except this time it's worse.
Because this time I know exactly what I'm walking away from.
I know how he feels inside me. How he tastes. How he looks at me like I'm something precious. How he says my name like it matters.
And I'm going to finish this assessment and leave anyway, because I don't know how to do anything else.
The afternoon stretches on. I review documentation. I check equipment logs. I do everything on my assessment checklist with mechanical precision.
James gives me space. I see him occasionally, passing in the hall, working in the bay, talking to his crew, but he doesn't try to corner me again. Doesn't try to force another conversation.
I tell myself I'm relieved.
It feels like disappointment.
By four o'clock, I'm nearly done. Just need to do a final walk-through, verify a few last things, and then I can submit my report and leave.
I'm in the equipment room checking inventory when I hear footsteps behind me.
I turn, expecting James.
It's Anthony.
"Hey," he says, leaning against the doorframe. "Just wanted to say thanks for being thorough. Some investigators just check boxes, but you actually seem to care about getting it right."
"It's my job."
"Yeah, but you're good at it." He grins. "Captain said you have a reputation for being one of the best."
My stomach tightens. "He said that?"
"Yeah. Yesterday, after you got here. Said he'd looked up your record and you were known for being extremely thorough."
After I got here. Before we had sex in his truck.
When he still thought this was just a professional assessment.
"That's good to know," I manage.
Anthony heads back toward the common room, and I'm left standing in the equipment room feeling like the floor just shifted under me.
He looked up my record. He knew who I was before I arrived.
He's been thinking about me.
The realization sits in my chest, heavy and complicated.
I finish the inventory check on autopilot and head back toward the office to pack up my things. I can finish the final documentation tonight at the hotel and submit the report first thing tomorrow morning.
And then I can leave.
The thought should bring relief.
It doesn't.
I'm gathering my files when James appears in the doorway again. This time, he closes the door behind him.
"Tess."
"I'm almost done. I just need to do the final walk-through tomorrow morning and then I'll be out of your way."
"You're not in my way."
"James, don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
He steps closer, and I force myself not to retreat. "What if I want it to be hard? What if I don't want you to leave tomorrow and pretend this didn't happen?"
"What do you want me to do?" The words come out sharper than I intended. "Stay? For what? Another eight weeks of whatever this is until we decide the timing's wrong again?"
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" I'm standing now, facing him, and fourteen years of buried hurt is rising in my throat. "You wanted me at twenty and you let me go. You want me at thirty-four and you're still not saying anything that makes me think this time will be different."
"I'm trying to—"
"You're trying to what, James? Finish what we started? See if it's as good as you remember? Satisfy your curiosity?"
"It's not curiosity." His voice is rough. "It's never been curiosity with you."
"Then what is it?"
The question hangs between us, sharp and necessary.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Runs a hand through his hair in frustration.
And the fact that he doesn't have an answer tells me everything I need to know.
"I should go," I say quietly. "Finish this tomorrow and get out of Bloomfield before we make this any worse."
"Tess—"
"Please don't make me ask again."
He steps back, and the distance between us feels like miles.
I gather my things and walk out of his office, down the hall, through the bay. I don't look back.
But I can feel him watching me leave.
Just like fourteen years ago.