When the princess told Ronald he was a bum and skipped off into the sunset, Daisy cheered softly. But her eyes were heavy.
"Can you stay till I sleep?" she murmured, already snuggling down.
I looked at Jack. He gave a single nod and came into the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, facing us. So we sat there, me in the chair with a drowsy Daisy, Jack on the bed watching us. It almost felt like a small family.
When Daisy's breathing deepened, I carefully eased her into bed. Jack pulled the covers up to her chin, his hand lingering on her hair. We tiptoed out.
In the hallway, the intimacy of the moment lingered, thickening the air between us.
"I have some foundation reports to review," he said, his voice low. "But you're welcome to stay. If you want. The silence isn't so..." He trailed off, searching for the word.
"Heavy?" I offered.
"Yes."
My heart did a funny little flip. "I could make tea."
A frail smile touched his lips. "That would be good."
Fifteen minutes later, I was setting a steaming mug of chamomile on his desk. I took the armchair across from him, a stack of donation lists in my lap. We worked in a silence that was, for the first time, genuinely comfortable. Not the silence of a conflict, but thesilence of two people focused on a shared purpose.
At one point, I looked up to find him watching me, his chin resting on his steepled fingers.
"What?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious.
He didn't look away. "This is strange," he said quietly. "You being here. Like this. It feels..."
"Normal?" I whispered, giving voice to the dangerous thought.
"Yes." The admission seemed to cost him something. His shoulders slumped, then he looked at me again. "And that's the strangest part of all. That it doesn't feel wrong. Not anymore."
We held each other's gaze, the air between us charged with the truth of it. This was becoming normal. Necessary, even. And we both knew it couldn't last, which made every second unbearably precious.
Another hour passed. My tea was gone, his mug empty. I stood to collect them. As I reached for his mug, my fingers brushed against his where they still rested on the desk.
The contact was electric.
A jolt shot through me. Not just through my arm, but my entire body, a current that made my breath catch and my pulse spike. My eyes flew to his.
He hadn't moved his hand. His fingers, warm and firm, turned slightly, deliberately, grazing the sensitive skin of my palm. Not quite holding, but not letting go.His thumb traced a slow line across my wrist, again right where my pulse hammered frantically.
He could feel it.
The world narrowed to that single point of contact. I could feel the callus on his thumb, the heat of his skin seeping into mine. His breathing had deepened, slowed. His eyes were dark, intense, fixed on where our hands touched.
I should pull away. I should run. This was Jack Spencer. The man who'd surveilled me. Who blamed me. Who should hate me.
But I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Could only feel the warmth spreading up my arm, the dangerous, impossible hope blooming in my chest.
Then, the sharp sound of a key in the front door lock shattered the moment.
We jerked apart like we'd been burned. Jack's hand became a fist on the desk. I stumbled back, clutching the mugs.
Mrs. Rosa bustled into the hallway. "So sorry! I forgot my recipe book!"
Jack cleared his throat, his voice rough. "It's fine, Rosa."
Mrs. Rosa peeked into the office. Her eyes widened just a fraction as she took in the scene, me standing too close to the desk, both of us flushed, the tension thick enough to cut.
