I jolt to my feet so fast the chair slams into him.
“I should—” My voice comes out strangled. I clear my throat and try again. “I need to clean up the kitchen. The dishes.”
River straightens up, looking confused. “Oh. I can help.”
“No.” It comes out too sharp, and I see him flinch slightly. I force myself to soften my tone even though everything in me is screaming to run. “No, it’s fine. That’s part of the job, right? Cook and clean. You keep working. I’ve got it.”
“Kiera—”
But I’m already backing toward the door, my heart still racing, my skin still tingling from that barely-there touch. “The documentary is really good. Seriously. I’m—I’m impressed.”
Then I turn and practically flee down the hallway. I grab the dishes from the dining room and go back to the safety of the kitchen where I can put my hands in soapy water and pretend my heart isn’t running a marathon.
Professional,I remind myself as I start running water in the sink, my hands shaking slightly as I squirt dish soap onto the plates.This is just a job. He’s just some guy who happens to be attractive and talented and passionate about things that matter. None of that means anything.
Except it does mean something. That’s the problem. I felt something back there. Something I swore I’d never let myself feel again. And that’s exactly why I need to keep my distance, keep this professional, keep every single one of my carefully constructed walls exactly where they are.
Because the alternative—letting those walls down, letting him in, trusting that this time might be different—that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.
Not when I know exactly how this story ends.
CHAPTER 4
RiverStone
Sunday, May 30
I standin my editing room staring at the empty doorway, my monitor frozen on a clip of the shoreline. The chair Kiera was sitting in is still slowly spinning.
What just happened?
One minute we were watching footage together—she was leaning forward, actually interested in what I was about to show her—and the next minute she bolted like I'd suggested something wildly inappropriate instead of just sharing my work.
I replay the last few minutes in my head. Did I say something wrong? Stand too close? I was just excited to show someone who might actually care about this project. She seemed genuinely engaged, asking questions like she cared.
Then she just... left.
I scrub a hand over the back of my neck and head toward the kitchen, following the sound of running water. Maybe I was not thinking clearly and did something to offend her. I should check on her.
I stop in the kitchen doorway.
Kiera is at the sink, scrubbing one of the plates we used for dinner with an intensity that suggests she's trying to remove several layers of ceramic along with any remaining peanut butter residue. Her shoulders are tense, her movements sharp and efficient. The water is running full blast, steam rising from the sink.
“You know,” I say, leaning against the doorframe, “we only ate peanut butter and jelly. Those plates weren't exactly caked with food. You're going to scrub a hole straight through to China at this rate.”
She doesn't turn around. “Maybe the plate deserves it for having to hold such a ridiculous meal.”
There it is. The sarcasm, sharp and defensive. Her walls are back up, reinforced with steel and probably some emotional barbed wire for good measure.
I chuckle and push off from the doorframe, crossing to the drawer where I keep the dish towels. “The PB&J sushi was not ridiculous. It was innovative. A culinary masterpiece.”
“It was bread rolled up with peanut butter.”
“Artisanal bread rolled up with peanut butter,” I correct, pulling out a towel and moving to stand beside her at the sink. I pick up one of the already-clean plates from the drying rack and start wiping it dry.
She glances at me, her hands stilling in the soapy water. “You don't have to do that.”
“Do what?”
