“Also true.”
She looks offended by how calm I am about this. It’s adorable.
“I can’t just lurk around your date,” she says. “That’s insane.”
“You’ll be in the adjoining room.”
“There is an adjoining room?”
“At Stone & Vale? There are six.”
That miffs her all over again. “Of course there are.”
I take another step closer. She has to tilt her head back a little to keep looking at me, and the sight does things to my self-control I don’t have time to examine.
“You wanted to do your job well,” I say.
“I did not mean espionage.”
“You’ll survive.”
Her lips part, probably to argue again, but I cut in before she can.
“You said you wanted to find me a compatible partner.” My voice drops. “That means seeing how I am with them. Seeing whether it works.”
Her eyes flicker.
There it is again. That quiet, involuntary reaction every time I make her imagine me with another woman.
She hates this.
I shouldn’t enjoy that. I do anyway.
“And if it does work?” she asks, trying for dry and mostly landing on wounded.
I look at her for a beat too long. “Then you’ll tell me.”
The room changes.
The air feels tighter, heavier. She knows exactly what I’m saying now. That I don’t trust my own judgment where this is concerned. That I’m putting her beside me because somehow, impossibly, her opinion matters more than it should.
“That seems,” she says slowly, “like a terrible idea.”
“Why?”
A tiny pulse jumps in her throat. “Because,” she says, too carefully, “I may not be objective.”
The words hit harder than they have any right to.
I take one more step and stop just in front of her. “No,” I say softly. “You probably won’t.”
Her breath catches.
For one suspended second, all I can think about is the elevator. Her mouth opening under mine. The way she clung to me when the lights went out. The way she ran when they came back on.
I lower my voice. “Go home. Change into something appropriate.”
Her eyes widen. “Appropriate?”
