“Yes. Email the people who published the picture and the lies.”
Email…the news. Right. Okay. Yes. That…isn’t possible.
Her entire precious being deflates, glass blue eyes losing their light. Soft and innocent and fragile, she says, “You can’t?”
There are so few things I can’t do, but the first thing the woman I love asks of me manages to make the list. “I’m sorry. It’s not something I can control.”
Her head droops, despair wafting off her, which results in physical pain inside my chest.
“It’ll blow over,” I tell her, because these things normally do.
“Right,” she says, and turns. I watch her fingers fall from a now-loose bow as she murmurs, “I’m sorry I bothered you this morning. You clearly already knew about this and would have done something if it were important.” She traverses the short staircase up to the door, and her hand lands on the knob. “Breakfast should be out of the oven soon. Would you like me to bring it to you?”
I swallow, hard. “Yes, that’s fine.”
Her bow gives up, and I don’t register when I stand. Or how I make it across the room. The first thing I register is blue eyes, looking up at me, wide, close, closer than they’ve ever been. With me standing on the bottom step and her on the third, the height distance between us has closed. Stillness consumes me, and I register my hand on her shoulder.
This is the third time in my life that I have touched her.
My heart rate shoots through the roof.
“Mr. Anders?” she asks.
My eyes flick down her back, and I release her. “Your apron.”
“My…” She looks over her shoulder. “Oh.”
Our hands touch as we both go for the straps at the same time. Her fingers snap away, so mine succeed in clasping the fabric. “Excuse me,” I whisper before I retie her bow, force myself to step back to ground floor, and fist my hands at my sides.
Her body angles toward me as she takes in the bow, then she looks up. “Thank you.”
My heart skips a beat, and breath struggles to reach my lungs. “Breakfast,” I say.
She straightens. “Yes. Breakfast. It’ll be just a few more minutes.”
Breathing does not get easier when she disappears out the door, so I turn sharply on my heel, reach my desk, and pull a leatherbound journal from a drawer. I can barely swallow as I date and time the entry. First things first, third touch. And fourth? Does our hands brushing count as a fourth?
I count it as a fourth, then I begin to assess the situation.
She’s not happy. That’s terrible.
But she’s also not irate or trying to take advantage of this development.
Those are plus points.
Also, she saidlies. She called the article a lie. If she’s most disturbed by the fact it’s not true, then future publicity surrounding us being in a relationship is less likely to be a problem—once we’re actually in a relationship.
There’s a chance I’m delusional and attempting to rationalize her response in a way that is favorable for my wishes…
But…
I exhale a curse, squeeze the hand that touched her shoulder to my chest, and close my eyes.
But Ican’t help it. Hope is a drug, and I’m high on the chances.
Somehow, I need to fix this so she’ll be comfortable with it.
Somehow, I need to close this distance between us.
