“The dinner will probably run until at least ten. Would you still be up?”
I risk a brief touch to her hand where it rests on the table. “I don’t have bedtime, and if I did, it would be around one in the morning. If you want to spend the night, I’ll be up.”
“Right.” She moves away, creating distance between us. “Maybe I should pack a bag, but I don’t want to bring an overnight bag to the restaurant.”
“I’ll come pick you up and take you to the restaurant. That way you can leave the bag with me. How does that sound?”
She lets out a deep breath. “I can’t believe I’m doing something like this.” You and me both.
“There’s no pressure. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to. I’m here until next Thursday, so we still have time to explore.” This is probably the wildest thing she has ever done in her life, so I need to tread lightly.
“Next Thursday? Are you going somewhere?” She frowns.
Why do I suddenly feel like a teen who’s been caught sneaking out past curfew?
I rub the back of my neck. “Yeah,” I admit, “My book tour starts next week.”
Her reaction is a blink and nothing else, but I see the recalculation happening behind her eyes. “And you didn’t think to mention this little escape plan?”
“It’s not an escape plan per se, and I was going to.” I sound like a dumbass. “I wasn’t planning to?—”
“Let me guess.” She cuts in, “You didn’t want to tell me so early because you assumed I’d spook?”
I open my mouth, then close it, realizing I can’t win this one. “Yes, and no. I was planning to tell you, but every time we’re together, talking is the last thing either one of us is worried about.” Which is partially true.
She leans back in the chair and closes her eyes for a second. I want to reach out and squeeze her hand, tell her it’s not what she’s imagining, but then she speaks.
“How long will you be gone?”
“A month, tops—it’s a four, maybe five-city run, a few days in each. I’ll be back the first week of August.”
She’s quiet, and I get it. It’s a shit reveal in the middle of what was already a tentative new-start scenario. But Minji isn’t a sulker. She squares her shoulders, and I can practically smell the battle stance coming off her.
“Let’s not make this bigger than it is,” she says after a beat. “I’m not clingy, and you have a job that requires travel. I’ve always admired people who are passionate about their work.”
I nod, relieved she’s not throwing my laptop out the window, but the tension between her eyebrows says there’s more.
She checks her phone. “I’m due at a conference call in three. Will you be in the building later, or just… making a last round?”
“Thought I’d stick around for another hour or so. If you want me to wait until you get off, I can.”
She shakes her head quickly. “God no. The last thing I want is for people to talk about us in the office. It was bad enough when Idated William; people talked. I don’t want that to happen again, especially since you are technically like a client.”
“Fine, I won’t wait for you, but I’ll miss you. Doesn’t matter if it’s a few hours. I already miss you, and you haven’t even walked out the door yet.”
This time, she really does smile, if only briefly. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make me feel like the lead in a bad Netflix rom-com.”
“Because you’re better at this than you think, and you’re so goddamn good at being a hardass, I think you forget what it’s like to be wanted. Actually wanted. I like reminding you.”
For the briefest second, the mask cracks. She looks at me and I see it—the fear, the longing, and the wild, searching desire that she stuffs down every damn day. The desire to be held, to be the one someone comes back for. I wonder if anyone’s ever just chosen her, for no reason other than wanting her, repeatedly.
As she stands, her phone buzzes, and the moment is gone, locked away. “Time for my call.” She’s all business. But before she turns away, she lays her hand briefly, almost invisibly, over mine on the table’s edge. The touch is so light I could tell myself I imagined it. I don’t. “Seven-thirty pickup?”
“Perfect,” I answer, and immediately want to retract the word, overanalyzing whether it sounds too eager, too eager-to-please, too much like a man who is already rearranging his entire schedule to orbit her. She glances at the clock on the wall as if trying to measure how much time is left in her life for this kind of nonsense. “You should work on those edits. That last passage was a little overwritten, if you ask me.”
