Does he know I’m holding my breath? That my heart is racing?
The ambiguity, the mystery of what exactly he means, leaves me wanting to know more, to press further. His expression is unreadable, but the tension between us is not. The entire room seems to disappear, leaving just the two of us tangled in a moment that feels like it could pivot in any direction.
The bartender delivers another plate, and I watch James divvy up the pasta, fascinated by this new version of him. I sense a change, a shift in the space between us, and I wonder how much further I can push.
As if he knows I’m already in too deep, he leans back and takes a measured sip of his drink. I sense him pulling away, keeping his distance. He’s so practiced at it, at reigning in any emotion that might make him vulnerable. That might make me think this could be anything more than two coworkers making conversation over drinks and pasta.
I have to find a way to shift without embarrassing myself, without crossing another line that he won’t hesitate to draw. He watches me, waiting to see if I’ll pry further and risk being shut down, or if I’ll be smart enough to bring us back to safe ground.
“Didn’t realize you had time for anything other than work,” I say, reaching for a bite of pasta, an attempt at nonchalance. “You’re pretty committed to it.”
The shift in topic seems to ground him, to affirm his sense of order and structure. There’s a part of me that’s annoyed he’s so good at this, so effortlessly skilled at sidestepping anything that feels real.
“Not unlike someone else I know,” he replies. “How did your hearing go today?”
I tell him about my loss in court today as we finish the pasta, and he listens with an expression that seems like understanding. We spend the next hour at the bar, drinking and talking about safe topics that include everything from tort reform to the traffic on my morning commute.
I find myself too distracted to even pretend I’m interested. I’m more focused on James, on his eyes, on the sharp lines of his jaw, the way his hands move, and his mouth, which forms around his words with a quiet intensity that makes my heart race.
The conversation is light, a reprieve from earlier, but the tension between us is still there, humming beneath each word.
He lowers his drink, setting it down with a sense of finality. I take a look at the empty glasses in front of us and know it’s time to go home. We’ve exhausted all territory, both safe and dangerous, and there’s nothing left to do but leave.
“I should get home. My cat is probably pissed I’ve been gone for so long,” I say reluctantly, savoring the lingering closeness.
“You’ve been drinking. I’ll drive you home,” he says, and it’s more a declaration than an offer.
He’s also been drinking, though he doesn’t even seem tipsy.
I open my mouth to protest, but he’s already turning toward the bartender with a look of resolve.
“Put hers on mine,” he says in a way that makes it clear he’s decided for both of us.
There’s a commanding air to it, the authority I’m used to from James when he’s made up his mind and won’t be dissuaded. Ibarely have time to react before he stands and offers his hand, a gesture equal parts courteous and insistent.
“It wasn’t a question, Avery. I’m driving you home.” His voice is low and sure, leaving no room for argument.
The use of my first name catches me off guard. I’ve grown so accustomed to being “Anders” to him, especially at the office, that hearing James call me Avery sends a flutter through my chest.
“Okay,” I say softly, as I place my hand in his. He pulls me gently to my feet, and for a brief moment, we’re closer than we should be.
Then he’s grabbing his suit jacket from the back of his chair, reaching for my purse and handing it to me with a light brush of our fingers. There’s a charge in the simple contact, a reminder of everything we’ve alluded to and not exactly said tonight.
James moves toward the exit with assured strides, his hand finding its way to the small of my back. It’s protective, almost possessive, as he guides me out of the hotel and into the cool night.
Chapter 6
He leads me out into the parking lot and presses a button on his keys, the lights of a massive black truck flickering in response. I blink, caught off guard.
“I had you pegged for more of a sports car kind of guy,” I tell him.
His low laugh is smooth against the night air. “The sports car is my weekend vehicle,” he replies, his words laced with subtle amusement.
He opens the door for me, offering a hand to help me in. His fingers wrap around mine, firm and steady.
“I’ve got it,” I say, attempting not to be completely helpless.
But he doesn’t let go.
