Too immediately.
She swallowed. “Okay, maybe…but not because of the guests or the trip.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she said, cheeks warming, “you’re… you.”
“That is not an explanation.”
“It is, actually,” she muttered.
I stepped closer. Not much. Just enough to catch the way her breath hitched.
“Are you worried I won’t be able to handle the trail?”
She shook her head softly. “No. I’m worried I won’t be able to handle… other things.”
“Such as?”
The tension tightened between us like a pulled rope.
She looked up at me.
Eyes bright.
Cheeks flushed.
Walls half-raised, half-fallen.
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Then whispered, “You know.”
I did know.
And I should have stepped back.
Instead, I let the moment hang long enough to feel it.
Finally, she cleared her throat and retreated two full steps. “Okay! Well! See you tomorrow. Or later. Or whenever. Great meeting.”
She practically bolted for the door.
And I stood there in the middle of the reorganized shed, heart beating harder than it should have, watching her escape like she was the one in danger.
She wasn’t.
I was.
Because for the first time since taking this job, I admitted a truth I’d been trying to ignore.
I wanted her.
And that was going to ruin everything.
