Our current projects are wrapping up, and we have nothing else on the table. We have to get this property. I have to get it. Everyone put their faith in me, and I can’t let them down.
I can’t fuck this up.
Yet here I am. Sitting in the den and not at my desk. Not getting ready to go to the office early like I should be.
Shit.
My brain feels like a room with a bunch of open boxes. The contents of which are spewed around my mind. The harder I try to sort them back neatly, the more they fall apart.
What is Blaire going to think in the morning?
This is not like Picante. This isn’t a spur-of-the-moment fling that neither of us thinks much about.
She’s in my home.
We’ve shared intimate things about ourselves.
She’s in my damn bed.
She has every right to wonder if I’m pursuing her for a reason.
Am I?
I grimace. “No, why would I be? She’s leaving in a few days. She doesn’t want something serious any more than I do.”
But as my words settle in the air, hanging around like they’re taunting me, I realize how bitter they taste.
I look at the chair she sat in this evening. She was still annoyed with me for pushing her on the carriage—something I shouldn’t have done. Yet her opening up to me and sharing things about her life is something I’ll never forget.
It was real. Raw. Profound, in a way.
I’ve never experienced that kind of intimacy before.
So why her? Why now?Why at the worst possible time in my life?
Still, I watch the fire crackle softly and have half of a notion to wake Blaire. I think she’d like the peace of this moment.
“Maybe that’s precisely why it’s her and now,” I whisper into the night. “I’m only feeling these things for her because it’s what we both need right now. It works. There’s a freedom for both of us because she’s going to leave. And neither of us will be worse for the wear.”
I hope.
Blaire
The coffee maker hisses as the final drips of java flow into my cup. I take it from the tray and inhale the decadent aroma.
Holt’s robe is soft and warm. I found it draped across the bottom of the bed when I woke up and couldn’t help myself from putting it on. It smells like him.
I tug the tie together at my middle before leaning against the kitchen island and gazing across the backyard. The peaceful view helps to settle the wildness that’s still present from last night.
“What am I doing?” I ask the empty house.
It’s almost lunchtime, and I’m just having coffee. There are three missed calls from Yancy on my phone that I intentionally left in the guest bathroom. I haven’t bothered to check my work emails yet.
It’s irresponsible despite the fact that I know everything at the office is taken care of. Yancy is handling everything because that’s what she does even though I’m usually too anal to let her. But I should be checking in. I need to ensure that all my court dates are extended due to the asbestos and that nothing has fallen through the cracks.
Instead, I’m standing in Holt’s kitchen drinking coffee.
Maybe this is what it looks like when someone just throws in the towel.
