I want to deny it, but my pulse betrays me, fluttering against my throat like it’s trying to escape. His eyes dart to my throat, darkening further.
“This is exactly why we need distance,” I say, steadying myself with a breath. “You can’t do this. We can’t do this.”
“You think I don’t know that?” His voice is raw, almost ragged. “You think I haven’t tried—” He stops himself, jaw locking.
The urge to reach for him rises uninvited. Dangerous.
“My daughter,” he says, softer now. “Where is she sleeping tonight?”
“In her own bed,” I say. “In her new house.”
He nods once, an air of relief to the movement that softens something in me. “I’ll find a solution to the sitter situation. Someone reliable. Permanent.”
“Mak—”
“If you refuse,” he continues, “then you’re being stubborn just for the sake of it.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m being practical. I don’t want to owe you every piece of my life.”
“You already do.”
I straighten. “Excuse me?”
He drags a hand through his hair, frustrated. “That came out wrong.”
“It didn’t,” I say. “You meant it.”
He steps toward me again. Reflexive. Possessive. “Rox?—”
“No,” I say, placing a hand on his chest because I need something to hold on to. His body heat burns through the fabric of his shirt. So much for distance. “We can’t do this every time something goes wrong.”
“We didn’t do anything,” he murmurs. But his voice betrays him. Hewants. He’s remembering. So am I.
I should push him away. I don’t.
“I need to work,” I say, though the words don’t sound like mine.
“You need a moment to breathe,” he counters.
“I need you to stop crowding me.”
His eyes flicker. “Then move.”
But I don’t. And he knows I won’t.
His gaze slips to my mouth again, and that’s the end of it. My breath, my resolve, and the fragile sense of equilibrium I walked in here with are gone.
He leans in, slow enough for me to move away, but fast enough to undo me. My back hits the edge of the desk. The wood bites through my shirt. My hands lift without permission, fists curling in the fabric at his waist.
“Roxy,” he says, low and rough, like the word’s been pulled from somewhere deep.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
He hears the no. He hears the want layered underneath it and pauses, but his fingers play at the hem of my shirt, untucking it deftly from the long skirt that flares at my knees. “You’re right, Roxanne,” he murmurs. “You’re so capable. So responsible. Sogood.”
My brows knit, a shiver of confusion wracking my body as his fingertips brush my waist. “You’ve been so good. You’re such a good mother, and you must be so tired.” His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together, and my breath catches as our eyes lock.
“You don’t have to be good here, Roxanne. Take what you need.”
