His mouth twitches. "Must be nice. Having people who check in."
Something in his tone makes my chest tighten. I realize his phone hasn’t buzzed or rang once. "You don't?"
"I have employees. Shareholders. A board."
"That's not the same."
"No," he agrees. "It's not. Emma lives in Arizona now; she’s married with kids. They come visit about once a year. They are the reason for the macaroni and cheese and snacks you’ve found. Her boys are preteens now and aren’t as impressed by the park like they were when they were children. My parents passed away a decade ago in a car accident. I don’t have much in the way of extended family. I stay busy."
I want to ask more, but the look on his face stops me. Instead, I say, "Well. You've got me now. For the weekend, anyway."
His eyes hold mine. "Is that right?"
"Whether you like it or not."
"I'm starting to think I might like it more than not." The admission lands between us, quiet and dangerous.
Later, when I yawn, he gestures toward the bedroom. "You take the bed. I'll sleep out here. You should sleep in the bed tonight; you didn’t get good rest last night."
I hesitate. "It's a big bed."
"That's not the point."
"I didn't mean—" I stop myself, cheeks heating. "I just thought maybe it'd be nice not to be alone." The wind blowing against the windows last night was rather frightening. I came downstairs for company. I don’t admit to him that I was scared and didn’t want to be alone. If the storm doesn’t let up, I know I’d not want to be alone tonight either.
He studies me for a moment, something unreadable passing over his face. Then he sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Fine. But if you kick, I’m coming back down to the couch."
"Deal."
“Go get ready. I’ll be in soon.”
The bedroom is dim and cozy, one lamp glowing beside the massive king-sized log-frame bed. Outside, snow swirls against the window. After washing up and slipping into one of his long shirts, I climb into the bed. I slip under the quilt; heart hammering harder than it should. When he comes in, the air changes. I can feel the tension between us. I wonder if he can feel it, too. He sets his phone on the nightstand and slides in on the other side, keeping a careful distance.
For a while, we lie there listening to the storm.
"You're so tense," I murmur. He’s laying stiff as a board, as if he’s afraid to roll over and touch me.
“No, I’m not.”
I turn my head toward him, catching the faint outline of his face in the half-light. "You don't have to be scared of touching me, you know. I’m not going to bite."
He lets out a breath, long and quiet. "Holly," he says softly, "you should sleep."
"I can't." I hesitate. "Too many thoughts."
"Such as?"
"That I'm sharing a bed with my boss in a snowstorm, and it feels like a dream I'm going to get fired for."
A low chuckle. "I'm not firing you."
"That's good. Because I like it here." A pause. "And I think maybe… I like you, too." I pause for a second before I realize how bad that sounds. “Like a friend or like a boss or like…”
His breath hitches almost imperceptibly. When he speaks again, his voice is rougher. "You don't know me, Holly."
"I'm trying to get to know you, Justin." I add his name to the end, mimicking his tone. The silence stretches. I can feel his warmth beside me, the solid weight of him under the quilt. My pulse thuds in my throat.
Then, quietly, he says, "Go to sleep, Holly."
