“Something like that.” I move to stand beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. “Big night.”
“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a moment. “You did good work, Josie. We couldn’t have pulled this off without you.”
“Careful,” I tease lightly. “That almost sounds like a compliment.”
His hand covers mine briefly, squeezing. “It is a compliment.” He lets it go, looking back at the far mountain.
I force myself not to read into it. “Then I’ll treasure it always. Write it in my diary. ‘Dear Diary, today Stone said something nice to me. Mark the calendar!’”
He laughs, the sound low and warm. It’s so pleasant it does things to my chest that are entirely inappropriate for a professional relationship.
Is this a professional relationship anymore?
I’m not sure, haven’t been for months. The lines blurred somewhere between the late-night strategy sessions and the way he always seems to find excuses to touch me—his hand on my lower back, his fingers brushing mine when he passes me a file, the weight of his gaze when he thinks I’m not looking.
“Josie.”
I glance up. He’s watching me with an intensity that makes my mouth go dry.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been wanting to say something.” He turns to face me fully, and the space between us feels very small. “About us. About...this.”
My heart is hammering so loud I’m sure he can hear it. “What about us?”
“I’ve been holding back.” His hand finds my hip, warm through the fabric of my shirt. “Trying to keep things professional. Telling myself it’s the right thing to do.”
“And now?”
He steps closer. His other hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb tracing along my cheekbone, and I forget how to breathe.
“I want you, Josie.” His voice is rough, barely above a whisper. “I’ve wanted you for months. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”
This is it. This is finally,finallyit.
I lean in.
His mouth is so close I can feel the warmth of his breath, can see the way his eyes darken with want?—
And then he steps back.
The cold rushes in where his warmth has been, and I stand there, lips parted, heart cracking down the middle, as Boone Armstrong puts three feet of careful distance between us.
“We can’t.”
Two words. That’s all it takes.
We can’t.
NotI don’t want to. NotI was wrong. Justwe can’t, which means he still wants to, which makes this whole situation so much worse.
Hot humiliation floods my chest, right on the heels of disappointment so sharp it borders on pain. Anger sparks too, bright, sudden, and quickly smothered, because how dare he pull me close like that, let me believe he was interested, say those things, and then leave me standing here like a damned fool?
I should demand an explanation. Ask him what the hell that was, why he touched me like he meant it if he was already halfway out the door.
I should do any of the things a rational adult would do when confronted with emotional whiplash of this magnitude.
Instead, I laugh.
