That was it. No banter. No teasing. No reference to the fact that we'd kissed in my office and I'd admitted I was attracted to her and she'd confirmed the feeling was mutual before walking out the door.
The shift in her tone bothered me more than it should have. At the coffee shop, Willow was all sharp wit and quick comebacks. In text, she'd become tentative, almost like she didn’t know how to act with me anymore.
I typed a message. Deleted it. Typed another.
What color is the dress?
Stupid question. Who cared what color the dress was? I deleted it.
Looking forward to Friday.
Too eager. Delete.
We should discuss logistics for the gala.
Too formal. As if we were colleagues planning a conference.
I set the phone down. Picked it up again. Put it back down.
Forty years old, Hayes. Act accordingly.
I settled on practical.
I'll pick you up at 6 on Friday. The gala starts at 7. Let me know if you need anything before then.
Her response came twenty minutes later, during which I accomplished absolutely zero work.
Sounds good. See you then.
Two sentences. No emoji, no sarcasm, no suggestion that she'd spent the past two days replaying our kiss the way I had.
Which was fine. Good, even. This was a business arrangement. Polite distance was appropriate.
I kinda hated it. I’d work that out later.
The afternoon crawled by in a haze of half-finished tasks and wandering thoughts. I reviewed the Riverside materials—really reviewed them this time—but my focus kept slipping. Every time I tried to concentrate on load-bearing calculations or sustainable materials, my mind drifted to Friday.
To Willow.
Graham was the social one. He lived for this shit. Meanwhile, the champagne and canapés and endless circulation through rooms full of strangers pretending to find each other fascinating made me want to jump from a balcony.
Richard Ashford's charity gala would be no different. Three hours of schmoozing and handshakes and careful navigation of social landmines, all in service of a contract that would define our firm's trajectory for the next decade.
I should have been dreading it. Should have beenreviewing my talking points, strategizing my approach to Richard, preparing for the careful dance of impressing a client without appearing desperate.
Instead, I was thinking about Willow in a dress I hadn't seen yet.
About my hand on her lower back as I guided her through a crowded room.
About introducing her to Richard and watching his face when he realized the workaholic architect had found someone worth making time for.
About kissing her when people were watching and having a legitimate excuse to do it.
This was a problem. A significant, potentially catastrophic problem that I was choosing to ignore in favor of anticipation I had no business feeling.
I knew the warning signs. The way my thoughts circled back to her no matter what I tried to focus on. The checking of my phone. The replaying of moments that should have been forgettable.
This wasn't how I'd felt about Jessica, not even in the early days when our relationship had still held promise. This was different. Sharper. More consuming.
