Something I shouldn’t name but yearn to give a title to.
“I have an idea,” I say out of the blue.
I can’t fucking take seeing her bristle anymore. I know the best way for her to get through whatever she’s facing—partially—is to move. But if sitting in this room isn’t going to cut it, then we need to do something else.
My words get her to stop, and thank fuck for it, because it gives my dizzying head a reprieve. I rise to my feet and grab my phone from my desk, tucking it into my pocket as I wave a hand at the door. “Let’s go on a field trip.”
She glances between the exit and me. “I-I don’t think we’re supposed to leave this room.”
“Says who, exactly?”
She pulls her lip into her mouth and thinks. “Well, technically, I guess no one.”
I stand and close the few steps that exist between us and offer a quick smile. “Lucky for us, I’m the one who makes the rules here. So, what do you say?” Her eyes drop to my mouth, and I can’t help but think it’s because she feels unsettled in my presence the same way I feel in hers.
I’ve worked hard keeping things professional, but even I can sense myself slipping.
“Are you sure?” Her eyes lift to mine. “You don’t think we’ll get in trouble?”
One corner of my mouth lifts higher than the other, and I slip my hands into my pockets, fingering one of my keys to help keep me grounded. To help keep me from thinking about my ex’s words again and if I reallywillbe alone and sad for all of eternity.
But even if those words were never said to me, Emory isn’t the person for me to try to get back out there with. She’s taken. She’s engaged. She is off-fucking-limits.
I lift a brow and stupid words fall out of my mouth. “Afraid of getting a demerit, Miss Prescott?”
My entire body lights up at the way she challenges me back. “Emory,” she corrects. “And actually, I’m not. I just don’t want you getting in trouble.” She crosses her arms against her light green top. I kind of like that she matches the room’s attire—that one of my all-time favorite colors looks this good on her.
I step over and pick her bag off the couch. She tossed it there as soon as she came in and has since forgotten about it. I hold it out to her, pressing it against her chest in a way that probably gives away my own antsiness.
Her eyes drop to my neck, to that tiny little scar.
For a reason unbeknownst to me, I step closer and reach up, smoothing my fingers over a piece of her hair and letting it slip through my fingertips way too quickly.
I play it off like it isn’t anything major and say, “There was a fuzzy in your hair.” But there wasn’t. It’s one of the biggest goddamn lies I’ve ever told.
The truth is that I just wanted to touch her, to feel her silky hair against my fingertips.
I wanted to feel what it would be like to have her close for a fraction of a second.
“Oh,” she breathes out, finally lifting a hand to take her bag. “Thank you.”
My smile stretches a little wider. A silentyou’re welcome.
“Now, what do you have in mind, Dr. Cole?”
I walk over to the door, twist the knob, and pull. “Before we get too far into this excursion, there’s one thing you should know.”
She stops in front of me, right on the threshold of exiting while I dangle on the precipice of professional and personal. I toe the line for one measly second, and then I step over it.
“If you want me to call you by your first name, then we’re dropping all titles.”
Confusion mars her beautiful features, her perfect eyebrows pulling together tight. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“No more ‘Dr. Cole.’”
“What exactly am I supposed to call you then?” she asks, those doe eyes looking up at me as the question falls from her mouth. I refrain from dropping my gaze to it. I’m alreadyfeeling the effects of her being so close. I don’t need the dizzying symptoms of her glossed lips falling over me on top of it.
“You can call me Dawson.”
