So, I force myself to add, more for my own sake than hers, “Two rooms.”
Her fingers still on the keys, her gaze flicking to mine, swirling with a cocktail of annoyance and something else. Heat. My heart punches my ribs. I’m very aware of our colleagues nearby, the low drone of John’s voice as he takes a phone call in his office, the way my breathing has turned shallow. The moment stretches out between us, pulling taut like a piece of gum, and I wonder how long until I snap.
Then Iris drops her gaze back to her keyboard. The ring of her desk phone stops her again, and she answers, her eyes sparkling as they return to mine.
“Okay, I’ll be right down.” She ends the call, rising from her desk. “That was reception. Your new drafting table has finally arrived.”
Oh, fuck. I’d forgotten all about that. The eight hundred bucks she spent.
Guilt claws at me, and I motion for her to sit. “I’ll get it.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but I wave her away and take the steps two at a time, needing space. It’s not until I reach reception that I realize what a bad idea it is. The drafting table stands beside the reception desk, cocooned in bubble wrap with FRAGILE tape crisscrossed over it. I peel some back to inspect it—oak, probably, like mine—and it must be close to two hundred pounds. I lift most days at the gym, but not that much.
Cursing under my breath, I get a handle on it and start dragging it toward the stairs. I’d be better off calling the delivery guys back, but this is a good distraction. It’s either this, or I go back upstairs and stare at Iris, willing myself not to tell her to only book one room.
She appears at my side a moment later as I’m wrestling it up the first few steps. “Want some help?”
“I’m fine,” I grumble, trying to get a better grip. The wood slips under the bubble wrap, and I have to tilt it to clear the step. The awkward angle makes it harder to hold.
“Are you sure?” Iris asks, hovering behind me.
“I’m sure,” I grate out. She’s too close, too willing, and it’s too much. I haul with brute force, the leg of the table banging the wall. “Fuck,” I mutter, breathless and sweating through my shirt.
Wordlessly, Iris catches the other end, meeting my gaze. “It’ll be easier if we do it together.”
God, I can’t explain why, but those words hit somewhere they shouldn’t. I drop my gaze, pretending I’m still catching my breath. I am, but not from the stairs.
Finally, we get the wretched thing into my office, and Iris sets about peeling the bubble wrap off with glee. It’s sturdier than mine, but wholly unnecessary since I repaired mine just fine. As I watch her, smiling over it, an idea comes to me. I don’t have a use for it, but she might.
She turns back to me, beaming, and it hits me right in the chest. “Pretty good, huh?”
“It’s great,” I murmur, voice coming out rough. I tell myself it’s from the stairs. “And I’m going to reimburse you.”
She shakes her head. “No way.”
“Iris—” I begin, but she puts her hands on her hips, chin lifting.
“I won’t take your money.”
My jaw works as I study her, so stubborn. There’s no denying I love this fire inside her, the way she grows defiant and bratty when pushed, even if it makes my life harder. She’s been socompliantthese past two weeks, so professional, and I’ve missed that side to her. I’ve missed the push and pull between us.
But what did I expect? I’m the one who told her we needed boundaries, that nothing more could happen between us. She’s doing exactly what I asked.
And the more she does, the more I want to close my office door, swipe everything off my desk, and bury myself inside her.
I swallow, pushing the image away. Satisfied that the drafting table is in the right spot next to mine, Iris steps back to admire it. She’s not looking as she does, and her shoulder bumps my arm, sending a jolt of awareness through me. She’s closer than I think she intended, but she doesn’t move away. I can feel the heat of her through my shirt, and I glance down to find her looking at me with those vivid blue eyes. Her breath falters, her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
I could kiss her. She’d let me. Fuck, I think she’d welcome it. I could close the inches between us and capture her mouth, part her lips with mine and slide my tongue over hers. The thought sends heat searing through me, and I curl my hands into fists at my side.
I want it more than anything. More than air itself.
But Iris steps back, letting her gaze fall. “I should go prep for tomorrow,” she murmurs, leaving my office. I watch her go, groin heavy, chest aching, wondering how the fuck I’m going to survive this weekend.
20
AIDAN
Ipick Iris up at midday on Saturday, outside her apartment in Queens. She waits on the icy sidewalk in her usual wool coat, baby-blue beanie on her head, and jeans tucked into tall brown boots. The boots she wore in Marco’s. An overnight bag hangs off one arm, and in her hands, she holds two coffees. It’s technically not even a workday, and she still got me one.
