I can feel him waiting for me to respond, to tell him I like him, too, to hold his hand and pick up where we left off in my kitchen.
I wince. “I just can’t get past the fact that I’m indebted to you, Reed. The liability thing. The thousands of dollars?—”
“Oh, that?” His face brightens, and Reed strides to his desk, pulling out a manila folder. “Here.”
He hands me a sheet of paper with an official-looking letterhead. I scan the typed paragraph with bolded phrases: Reed Nicholas of Urban Forest Solutions hereby releases Eliza Storm of Mobile Urban Natural Clearing Herd from all liability related to the incident of November 15th…
“You’re releasing me from the debt,” I say, staring at the paper.
He watches my face. “The damage was an accident. You’ve more than made up for it by helping me recover in time for the pitch. I never, ever want you to feel you owe me anything.”
“Reed…” I look up at him, this man who’s been quietly protecting me while I’ve been spinning paranoid fantasies about his motives.
“Sign it,” he says. “Then we’re equals. No power imbalance, no debt, no obligation. Just two people deciding if they want to… go to a fancy party together.”
I sign my name with a shaky hand, and when I look up, Reed is watching me with an expression so hopeful it makes my chest tight.
“Now what?” I ask.
“Now I acknowledge I have never done a prom-posal, and I ask you if you’ll be my date for the Yule Gala. If you think Mandy Warnick will let us back on the premises.”
I’m about to laugh and tell him yes when the greenhouse’s automatic sprinkler system activates with a mechanical whir. Water rains down on us from multiple directions, soaking through my jacket in seconds.
“Shit!” Reed lunges for the control panel. “The timer must be malfunctioning?—”
But I’m laughing, because of course this would happen. Of course, the universe would choose this moment to drench us both. Reed’s Henley clings to his chest, water dripping from his hair, and when he turns to me, his eyes drop to where my wet t-shirt has become essentially transparent.
His gaze lingers on my chest for just a moment—not long enough to be inappropriate, but long enough for me to see exactly what he’s thinking. When his eyes meet mine again, there’s heat there that has nothing to do with embarrassment.
“Eliza,” he says, his voice rough.
The way he’s looking at me—like he wants to touch me, taste me, take me apart and put me back together—sends panic shooting through my system. This is real. This attraction, this connection, this thing between us that’s been building for weeks.
I’m terrified of how much I want it.
“I have to go,” I say quickly, backing toward the door.
“Wait—”
But I’m already fleeing again, leaving Reed standing in his flooded greenhouse with water dripping from his hair and that same expression of hope and confusion I’ve seen too many times.
I make it to my truck before I allow myself to look back. Through the greenhouse windows, I can see Reed standing exactly where I left him, watching me drive away. I guess this has nothing to do with me owing him money and everything to do with what I thought earlier: my mother has fucked me up beyond repair. I can’t be anyone’s sweetheart. I’m not Yule Gala material because I have nothing emotional to offer. And Reed Nicholas deserves the kind of girl who can bang him against one of his tree trunks and support him with all the other stuff in a relationship.
It’s better that the universe threw cold water on this before we caught fire.
17
Reed
The weather app on my phone shows an angry red blob moving toward Pittsburgh, complete with warnings about ice accumulation and power outages. I tell myself I’m checking road conditions because I need to get home safely before the storm hits.
I’m definitely not thinking about Eliza.
Except I am. I’ve been thinking about her for the past six hours, replaying the moment she signed that liability release and the way her face lit up when I asked her to the Yule Gala. Then the sprinklers went off, and she looked at me like I was something dangerous and bolted.
Again.
The rational part of my brain knows she’s dealing with abandonment issues. The irrational part wonders if I can somehow plead my case that we can try to be together. God, even thinking it sounds pathetic.
