“Yes,” she says, tugging her T-shirt back into place with unnecessary force. “A spectacular lapse in judgement.”
I drag my undershirt on and immediately regret the silence. It’s the wrong kind. Too loaded.
“You were the one who kissed me,” I point out.
She freezes. Slowly turns. “Excuse me.”
“You leaned in,” I say. “You closed the distance.”
“You fed me dessert like you've read too many Victorian seduction manuals,” she shoots back.
“That was tiramisu.”
“That was foreplay,” she snaps.
I huff out a laugh. “You moaned.”
Her eyes flash. “You sucked your thumb like you wanted me to watch.”
“That was hygiene.”
“That was theatrical.”
We stare at each other, both bristling now, both clearly reaching for anger because it’s familiar and safer than whatever else this is.
“You said ‘open your mouth’,” she says flatly. “Inthatvoice.”
I fold my arms. “You didn’t have to listen.”
“I was being polite.”
“Bullshit.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it again, breath hitching. For a moment, something softer flickers there. Something dangerous.
She shuts it down immediately.
“This,” she says, gesturing vaguely between us, “cannot happen again.”
I nod. Too quickly. “Agreed.”
“You and I don’t like each other,” she continues. “We just deal with each other professionally. My work. Your restaurant. That’s it.”
“Exactly. What do we even know about each other?” I add.
“Yes,” she says. “That.”
We stand there, rigid with agreement, pretending neither of us is still painfully aware of the other’s presence.
“You started it,” she mutters.
I bark out a laugh. “You are unbelievable.”
“You literally told me I had cream on my mouth.”
“Because you did.”
“You could have let me wipe it.”
