He cut a piercing grin in my direction as he drove up the street. "It's all good."
"But you know how I feel about people doing things for me. I'll have to fire up the crockpot."
I was aiming for some self-deprecating humor but it was clear I'd missed the mark when Linden said, "I know you won't let anyone help you. I know you see it as a liability, a weakness."
Still hoping for humor, I continued, "I'll have to whip up another batch of biscuits. Maybe a banana bread."
"Oh god, please don't. The bananas deserve a better fate than your baking."
We shared a laugh at that and fell into comfortable silence by the time we reached the interstate. Though I wasn't about to announce it to him, handing off the task of navigation was a treat. One less thing to worry about today.
I wasn't worried, not in any true sense of worried. It was more like the feeling of standing on the end of a diving board, toes curled around the edge, heart racing in your chest as ifanythingcould happen when you jumped, anything at all. It could be fun and perfect but it could also hurt. It could be an embarrassing, uncoordinated splash of limbs. Even if you wanted to dive, even if you'd climbed up there because you wanted to go through with it, getting to the edge was something else altogether.
I fished my phone out of my bag and checked the notifications. Nothing new—and that came as a thin, mild relief coupled with unspeakable confusion. I needed to figure out my next steps sooner than later.
Linden reached over, covered my hand with his. "You're nervous," he said as he stilled my fingers. I wasn't sure when I'd started tapping my nails against the screen.
I nodded. "A little, yeah."
He shifted his hand to lace his fingers with mine. "About the lawyer or something else?"
"I don't know. I have a lot to figure out. The lawyer and…everything else."
"Not today you don't. One thing at a time." He turned into an office park and stopped in front of the last building. It was low and gray, and completely ordinary. "Here we are."
I stared at the shingled building and the sign announcing the practice partners, and it struck me that I'd never told Linden the specific location. He must've looked it up in advance. I didn't know how to react to that. I wanted to take it as proof he cared about me—he cared much more than he was annoyed by me—but that seemed foolish. When I boiled it all down, it didn't matter that much and it probably mattered nothing at all to him.
"Would you like me to come in with you?"
This was nothing. I meant nothing to him. He was justveryneighborly. "Um…"
"Let me put it to you this way: Would it make you uncomfortable if I walked you inside?"
I shook my head. "No."
"Would you get stressed out if a receptionist made an offhand comment referring to me as your significant other?"
"I don't want you to deal with—"
"I asked if it would stressyouout. Would it?"
Again, I shook my head. "No."
"Then that's what we'll do." He squeezed my hand. "Stay here. I'll come around."
I watched him kill the engine and disengage his seat belt, and I wanted to honor his request. I wanted to stay in my seat, I wanted it more than anything, but my entire body rebelled against the notion ofsitting here and waiting. I couldn't let him help me out of a vehicle when I was perfectly capable. It was a pleasantry but it was also a doorway to leaning on him, relying on him, expecting things from him.
That was the last thing I needed, especially after—oh god—yesterday.
When Linden rounded the hood of the truck and found me standing there, straightening my hair in the side mirror, he blew out a breath, muttered something to himself, and gave me a slow up-and-down stare. "All right, Jasper. Let's get to it."
Linden was right about being mistaken for my significant other at the front desk, and his repeated insistence that it didn't bother him saved me from apologizing all over the situation while I waited to be called back into a meeting room.
"Why would it bother me?" he asked. "Why would I put any effort into reacting to the presumptions of a stranger?"
I wanted to provide him a thoughtful explanation as to why it was reasonable to feel some sort of way about this but all I could offer was, "I don't know. Sometimes men get weird about being misrepresented."
"Menget weird about being misrepresented?"
