“No,” I reply, jumping up to clear my mugs if only to put some space between me and the lifeline to the man who’s digging in his heels. For us.
I can’t crack. Not now, when everything is up in the air. “I can’t. Not yet. Not until I know if there really is another option.”
“Even if it means he keeps playing like he did tonight?”
My steps falter, but resolve hardens my core. “Yes, because then, maybe, he’ll realize this…fling was a mistake before it destroys both of our careers.”
Whitney scrambles up to follow me to the kitchen. “You don’t actually believe that. Especially not after that second text.”
She’s right. I don’t. Last night, Emmitt made it crystal clear I’m the furthest thing from a reckless impulse he’s ever had.
“Text him back,” I say finally, my voice barely a whisper as I deposit an armful of mugs on the counter. “Tell him…I need time and space.”
“McKenna—”
“Please, Whitney. I’m sorry for dragging you into this mess, but please. Just…please.”
She looks as if she wants to argue, but something in my desperate expression stops her. Instead, she types.
The response comes almost immediately, and Whitney’s lips curl into a smile.
“What?” I ask, dreading the answer.
“He says you’ve got twenty-four hours and not a second more.”
Damn him. Why does he have to make this so much harder than it has to be? Why can’t he be like every other guy who’s decided I’m too much work when the going gets tough? Why can’t he cut his losses now?
I’m not sure one day is enough time, but there’s nothing more I can do tonight. All I can do is pray Linda can figure out whether this mysterious option she alluded to has a real shot or is just false hope. Because Emmitt Buckley doesn’t seem as if he’ll give up on me.
Emmitt
Iclosetheofficedoorbehind me and sink into the chair across from Linda’s spotless desk. It’s seven-thirty in the morning, and I’m wearing yesterday’s jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt that smells faintly of day-old cologne. The vanilla latte fromDesert Bloom, a local coffee shop I’ve seen Linda with to-go cups from, rests on the desk between us like a peace offering.
She glances up from her computer, taking in the closed door and my disheveled appearance with the practiced eye of someone who’s counseled plenty of athletes in crisis.
“Good morning,” she says, casually removing the readers from her nose as if I regularly stop by, bearing gifts, at this godforsaken hour. She accepts the cup with a raised eyebrow and takes a small sip. I hope it does the trick, as I clench my jaw to keep from looking as wrecked as I feel.
Six hours of sleep over three days will do that to a guy. So will replaying every conversation with McKenna while staring at myceiling, wondering if I’ve just destroyed the best thing to ever happen to me.
“Tell me, how can I help you today?” she says, as if she doesn’t know exactly why I’m here.
The ice machines rumble to life somewhere down the hall, and I hear Jorge, the head custodian, whistling as he strolls by. The facility feels different at this hour, quieter, more intimate.
“We need to talk.” My shoulders are wound so tight they feel as if they might snap. And this minuscule office chair seems like a poor choice of seating for an organization where at least half the guys are pushing two hundred pounds.
Linda’s expression shifts from morning pleasantries to HR-professional-who-takes-no-shit. She sets down her coffee and leans back, fingers steepled. “Let me guess. This conversation is going to require my undivided attention and possibly some creative interpretation of policy manual section twelve-point-four.”
My captain instincts kick in. I can’t help it. They’re ingrained in my bones after years of stepping up when the team needs leadership. Taking control when someone has to take responsibility for the hard choices. Taking the fall when we’ve failed.
Except this time, I’m not protecting my teammates. I’m fighting for the woman I love.
“Linda,” I start, clearing my throat. “I know you can’t discuss personnel matters, but—”
“Oh, honey.” She waves a hand dismissively. “We’re well past the point of pretending this isn’t about personnel matters. You show up here looking like you’ve been hit by a Zamboni, bearing my favorite coffee, after your girlfriend disappeared yesterday following my meeting with her?” She takes another sip. “Either you underestimate me, or I’m dead wrong.”
Girlfriend. The word hits differently when someone else says it. It’s more real. More terrifying. My shoulders drop. “How long have you known?”
“Known? That’s a strong word. Suspected?” Linda’s smile is sharp but not unkind. “Let’s just say, ever since the day McKenna settled into her office, I’ve been waiting for you to stop by to ask the exact question you’re here for now.”
