The “we need to talk” that never means anything good.
“Always,” I say, patting the couch cushion beside me. “Come on. I promise not to bite. Unless asked nicely.”
She gives me a look that’s half exasperated, half flustered, and stays standing, arms crossed tight over her chest.
Okay. Not sitting. That’s fine. That’s normal. People stand all the time.
She clears her throat. “About last night?—”
“Ten out of ten,” I say. “Would recommend.”
“Silas.” Her tone sharpens, which, unfairly, only makes her cuter. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” I tip my head, let some of the teasing drain out. “I can be serious. Occasionally. Under supervision.”
She huffs out a breath that might be a laugh if she weren’t so clearly braced for impact. “It was… that was… I shouldn’t have let that happen.”
Not “I didn’t want it.”
Just shouldn’t. Important distinction.
“Okay,” I say slowly, setting my phone on the side table. “You want to call it a mistake?”
Her gaze flicks away. “I… don’t know.”
She sounds frustrated with herself, which I enjoy even less than the distance.
“Delaney.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “If you tell me you regret it, I’ll back off. Full stop. No jokes, no flirting, nothing that makes you uncomfortable. That’s not the kind of man I am.”
Her eyes jump back to mine at that, hazel dark and big and a little panicked.
“It’s not that,” she blurts. “I mean, I don’t… I don’t regret… you.” Her cheeks flush a pretty pink. “It’s just… everything.”
I wait. She fumbles for words.
“I’m your employee,” she says. “And Boone’s. And I live here. And my absolute disaster of a past with my old boss and…” She cuts herself off, dragging in a breath. “I can’t do messy again. I can’t.”
She stares at the floor, shoulders tight, waiting for judgment.
Messy.
I know that word. I’ve lived that word. Hell, I’ve been that word for half this town.
I lean back, let out a slow breath.
“Okay. First of all, I might be messy. But I’m at least… eighty percent less terrible than your old boss, right?” I hold up two fingers. “Official statistics.”
A reluctant smile tugs at her mouth. “That’s not how statistics work.”
“Agree to disagree.” I drop the joke, let my voice soften. “Second… I get it. You don’t want to feel trapped. Or like you’ve walked into another situation where you lose everything if one thing goes wrong.”
Her throat works. “Exactly.”
“So this is you calling it off?” I ask gently. “Between us?”
She nods, but it’s hesitant, not decisive.
“I think it has to be. We can’t…” Her hands flutter in the air, searching for a word less incendiary than what we did on that couch. “We can’t do that again.”
