I'm halfway up the stairs when I hear her soft exhale. Frustration. Definitely frustration.
Good. At least I’m not suffering alone.
I make it to my room, close the door, and lean against it, breathing hard. My hand drops to the front of my sweats without conscious thought, pressing against the ache.
Remember your promise. She deserves better than to be rushed.
This is going to be a long goddamn night.
Chapter 8
Daniel
Two weeks.
Fourteen days of sharing a house with Delaney Phillips, and I’m losing my goddamn mind.
It starts small. Her coffee mug appearing next to mine in the dish rack—the blue one with the chipped handle she brought from Havenridge. Her shampoo wafting from the mian bathroom, something floral that hits me every morning like a sucker punch. The sound of her footsteps while I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the fact that she’s so close and I can’t—won’t—touch her.
Her terms. Her timeline. Her choice.
I repeat it like a mantra. It doesn’t help.
The kitchen encounters are the worst. Early hours of the morning, when neither of us can sleep. I come down for water, and she’s already there, standing at the counter or sitting at the table in that oversized T-shirt.
We don’t touch. We talk about supply orders and weather forecasts and whether Captain Winky’s favoring his left foreleg. Safe topics.
But last night, she reached past me for a glass, and her hand landed on my chest to steady herself when I didn’t move fast enough. Three seconds. That’s all it was. Three seconds of her palm flat against my bare skin, her eyes wide, her breath catching.
Neither of us moved.
Then she stepped back, said goodnight, and disappeared upstairs. I stood in that kitchen for ten minutes, rock hard and furious with myself, before I could make my legs work.
I’m not sleeping. I’m running fence lines at 5 AM to burn off the want. I’m taking cold showers that don’t do a damn thing.
And through all of it, I’m doing the only thing I can do: taking care of her in the only way I know how.
Moving her truck to the shade so the steering wheel doesn’t burn her hands. Stocking her favorite tea in the cabinet. Adjusting the Sunday schedule so she can have lunch with Kitty without rushing. Leaving her favorite pens on her desk—the specific brand she mentioned once, in passing. I bought six of them. Just in case.
She doesn’t know. That’s the point.
If I can’t tell her how I feel—if saying it out loud would make her feel trapped—I’ll show her in ways that don’t cost her anything. Small things. Invisible things.
It’s not enough. It’s all I’ve got.
Marlon Ennis has the kind of handshake that makes you want to count your fingers afterward.
“Mr. Sutton.” He gestures to the chair across from his desk, all polished wood and family photos arranged at precise angles. “Thank you for coming in. Can I offer you some coffee?”
“I’m fine.”
“Water? Sandra just restocked the?—”
“I’m fine.” I take the chair because standing over him will only make this take longer. “You said you had an answer about the restructuring.”
His smile falters. He’s not used to people skipping the pleasantries. Probably went to some seminar about building rapport with clients. Probably has a certificate on the wall behind me.
“Yes. Well.” He shuffles papers that don’t need shuffling, aligning edges that are already aligned. “After careful review of your application and current risk profile?—”
