6. Edda #2
The words land harder than they should.
For a moment, I don’t answer. My mind flickers to the shop.
Early mornings alone at my workbench, cold coffee going bitter before I even notice.
The old radio that never quite pulls in a clean signal, always faintly alive but never fully there.
My father’s sandwiches were left on the counter without a word, like affection didn’t need announcing in our house.
Like needing anything at all was something you learned to outgrow.
And I’ve been good at it. Too good.
Bennett Thornhill makes three billion dollars’ worth of decisions every year, and he is sitting here telling me he does not know what he is doing.
“The car will be here in twenty minutes,” I say, my voice coming out softer than I intend. “We should probably talk about what happens next.”
“What happens next is the site walkthrough on Thursday.” His hand finally finds the medal, thumb pressing into its shape through the fabric like he is grounding himself in it.
“My project coordinator has you scheduled for the afternoon session. I was going to review the heritage file so I could attend without it looking obvious.”
“Without what looking obvious?” I ask.
“That I’m clearing my schedule to be in the same room as you.” He holds my gaze, and something in his expression shifts, a fracture of control slipping through.
“I’ve been doing that for weeks. Marcus has noticed. Vera has noticed. The only person who hasn’t figured it out is you.”
I think about the gala last night, the way he crossed the room in eight precise steps when Diana Cassel cornered me near the bar.
The car ride after, the way his hand kept drifting to his pocket whenever he said something that mattered.
The suite, one room instead of two, and the fact that I never once questioned how the booking error happened.
“Did you arrange the double booking?” I ask.
“No.” His thumb pauses against the medal. “But I didn’t correct it when Marcus mentioned it.”
“When did Marcus mention it?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Three hours before we arrived.”
Three hours.
He knew for three hours we would be sharing a room, and he said nothing. He let me walk into the suite in my borrowed dress and carefully arranged my composure. Let me believe we were both caught off guard, when he had been sitting on that knowledge the entire day.
I should be angry. The anger is there at the edge of me, close enough to reach for, to use. But instead I’m looking at his hand in his pocket, at the medal caught beneath his fingers, at the careful stillness in his shoulders that I’m starting to understand isn’t control. It’s fear.
“You could have asked,” I say. “What I wanted.”
“I know.” His voice drops. “I didn’t know how.”
“Bennett.”
I reach across the table and touch his wrist, just above where his hand presses against the medal. His pulse jumps under my fingers, quick, warm. Real. “I’m not a problem you can solve by avoiding the question.”
“I know that too.”
“Do you?”
He turns his hand beneath mine, palm up, and I let my fingers slip between his. Not like last night. Not heat or urgency or the frantic edge of pretending it meant nothing. This is quieter. Steadier. Something that has space to exist without burning everything down around it.
“The walkthrough is Thursday,” he says, eyes on our joined hands. “I’ll be there. Not because of the file.”
“Because of me.”
“Yes.”
I hold that answer longer than I should, like it might change shape if I turn it over enough.
My mind drifts to the shop, to the bicycle frames waiting for repair, to the delivery Mrs. Petrova signed for, to the someday jar still sitting on my counter with its scattered coins catching light when the door opens. Small, ordinary things that keep a life moving forward.
And then there’s this. Him. This agreement we’re both pretending is simple.
Because wanting anything from him comes with a cost I haven’t fully named yet.
"I have a customer at two," I say. "Regular. Comes in every Thursday for his restored Schwinn."
"I know. I've seen the repair log."
"You've been reading my repair logs?"
"I've read everything you've submitted for the consulting contract." His thumb traces a slow circle against my palm. "You're meticulous. You annotate your own annotations."
"That's not a compliment."
"It's a fact," he says, eyes lifting to mine. Something in their flat blue steadiness warms, just slightly. "I like facts."
The car is coming in fifteen minutes. I should put on my shoes. I should find my phone and check the messages I’ve been ignoring. I should do all the things that will carry me out of this suite and back into the life I’ve built without anyone’s help.
Instead, I hold his hand at the breakfast table, surrounded by cold eggs and overly elaborate pastries, and let myself sit in everything we are not saying yet.
“Thursday,” I say. “The walkthrough.”
“Thursday.” His fingers tighten around mine. “I’ll be there.”
The door to the suite clicks open. The car. Or a staff member coming to clear the breakfast spread. Or the world is reminding us we can’t sit here forever.
Bennett releases my hand slowly, like he is trying to memorize the shape of it before letting go. I stand and walk to find my shoes.
But as I pass the counter on my way to the bedroom, I notice my coffee mug still sitting where I left it. Cold now. Black with one sugar, exactly how I take it. Left on the marble like he knew I’d come back for it without asking.
I stop.
Bennett is still at the table, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“You poured mine first,” I say quietly. “At the events. This morning too. You always pour mine first.”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.
I pick up the mug and carry it into the bedroom. The ceramic is cool against my fingers, the coffee untouched.
Behind me, I hear him on the phone. His voice drops into that controlled, professional cadence. Marcus. Thursday afternoon. Clearing the schedule. Reviewing the file.
I set the mug on the nightstand and reach for my shoes, refusing to linger on the fact that I’ll be watching for him at the walkthrough, counting down the minutes until his car pulls in.
Some things are easier to name than others. Some things you leave sitting where they are until you’re ready to pick them up.