"I probably shouldn't be here," she says instead of greeting me.
My hands grip the wheel, and I focus on the road instead of on how close she is, how the soft scent of her fills the cab of my truck. "But here you are."
My place is ten minutes outside of town, a small house that I share with Pine and Jett but which feels like mine in ways that matter. I cut the engine in the driveway and sit there for amoment, feeling the weight of what I'm about to do. She's my brother's wedding planner. A complication I don't need, but I can’t get her out of my mind.
"Come on," I say, and I have to force myself to move away from her.
The front door opens easily. The living room lights flick on, and I gesture toward the corner where my chessboard sits. It's a nice table, custom made, the kind of thing that doesn't fit with the rest of my aesthetic but which I keep anyway because it's where my mind goes quiet.
She walks toward it like she's been drawn there, her fingers hovering over the pieces.
“I can’t believe you play chess,” she says. It's not a question.
"Sometimes," I admit. “It's not the kind of thing that matches the image of the cocky firefighter.”
She laughs, and it is as if she has let down her guard in a matter of seconds, which is good.
I get us drinks, and she settles at the board. Her movements are practiced, confident. I watch her hands, the way her fingers find each piece, the focused expression on her face.
"You're good," I observe, sitting across from her.
"My dad taught me," she says. There's something soft in her voice that suggests memory and maybe pain. "When I was young. I haven't played in years, but you don't forget something like this."
"No?" I make my opening move.
"It's like remembering who you were before things got complicated," she says, and it hits me that we're not really talking about chess anymore.
We play through the first game. She beats me, and it happens in a move I don't see coming. She takes my queen with a strategy that requires thinking three moves ahead, sacrificing her bishopto set it up. When it's over, she smiles, and the smile transforms her face completely.
"You're not even trying," she says.
"I'm distracted," I say, and it's true. Her hair keeps falling across her shoulder, and I keep having to force my hands to stay on the table instead of reaching out to tuck it back. The way she concentrates, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, the little sound she makes when she's thinking through a strategy. All of it is distracting.
"You're letting me win on purpose," she accuses.
"Maybe," I admit. "Would that be so terrible?"
"Yes," she says firmly. "Because it wouldn't mean anything. Winning should be because I played well, not because you felt sorry for me."
"Fair point." I start resetting the board, and I can feel the tension in my shoulders, the effort it's taking to keep my hands to myself. "Next game I play for real."
We play through the second game. I actually focus this time, think through my moves, and I still lose. By the third game, it's past midnight, and she's laughing at how badly I'm playing, and I'm trying not to think about how much I want to touch her.
We move to the couch at some point. I tell her I'll get us fresh drinks, and I use the time in the kitchen to grip the counter and breathe. This is not a good idea. And I'm sitting here planning how to get my hands on her again like I'm not capable of basic self-control.
When I come back, she's curled into the corner of the couch, and I sit on my side, angled toward her but keeping distance between us. It's a struggle, that distance. Every cell in my body wants to close the gap, to pull her against me, to do all the things that a week of thinking about her has made me want to do.
"The wedding's falling apart," she says suddenly, unprompted.
I seize on the distraction like a lifeline. "Yeah?"
"Nobody's confirming," she continues, and there's frustration in her voice. "I've sent reminders. Half the people who got invitations won't respond. The ones who did are being vague. And Ben and Penelope won't give me a final count." She runs a hand through her hair, and I watch the movement like it's the most interesting thing I've ever seen. "Jessica thinks I'm incompetent. Savannah's going to think I'm incompetent. The wedding's nearly three weeks away.”
"You're not the problem," I say, and I mean it.
"What do you mean?" She turns to look at me, and the movement brings her closer. Not much, but enough that I notice the change.
“Maybe nobody wants to go to this wedding," I say carefully. "What if the problem isn't you? What if it's them?"
