Sloane’s gaze flicked down at the quick, unmistakable contact. She didn’t move away. In fact, she shifted almost imperceptibly closer, as if pulled by something she wasn’t ready to name.
The quiet in the elevator changed. It tightened. Thickened. Reese felt it settle on her shoulders, warm and heavy and full of possibility.
“You’re confusing,” Sloane said finally. Her voice was soft enough that Reese had to lean in to hear it. “And I don’t get confused easily.”
“That feels like a compliment,” Reese murmured.
“It wasn’t meant as one,” Sloane replied, but her eyes said otherwise. The dim emergency lighting caught a flicker of something. Interest, maybe? Curiosity? Whatever it was, it was new. And it was aimed directly at Reese.
Reese let the moment stretch. “You know, you don’t have to keep pretending you don’t like me. Or are we leaving all of that back at the restaurant?”
Sloane’s brows lifted, but she didn’t deny it. She didn’t deflect. She didn’t joke.
Instead, she exhaled, slow and steady, as if Reese had knocked the air from her. Her hand, resting on the floor between them, curled just slightly. Nervous? Or fighting the impulse to reach? Reese couldn’t tell. She only knew her own pulse was thundering in her ears. Had she ever found any woman on earth this wildly attractive?
“Reese,” Sloane warned, but the warning wavered. “This, whatever this is, we’re not supposed to go there.”
“Because of some undocumented rule?” Reese asked quietly. “Or because you’re afraid of where it might lead?”
Sloane met her gaze head-on then, and the world beneath Reese’s rib cage tilted. “Maybe a little of both,” Sloane said. A confession she probably hadn’t intended to give.
Reese swallowed. “You know what’s funny?” she said, leaning in, her shoulder brushing Sloane’s now. “I’ve been trying all night to decide if I should sidestep whatever this is. If I should ignore the way you look at me sometimes.”
“I don’t?—”
“You do,” Reese whispered. “You’re doing it right now.”
Sloane froze. Completely still. Completely caught.
And Reese—God, she wanted to touch her. She wanted to trace her jaw with her fingers. Unbutton that blouse and watch it fall from her fingertips. She settled for sliding her hand an inch closer on the floor until their pinkies nearly, almost touched.
The elevator hummed around them, a soft mechanical heartbeat. Time felt suspended.
Sloane’s voice came out barely audible. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably,” Reese said. “But it doesn’t feel terrible.”
For a moment, for one breathless second, Sloane seemed to grant herself permission to look. Really look. At Reese’s mouth. At the bare inches between them. At the closed space that suddenly felt too intimate in all the right ways.
And Reese knew: if the elevator stayed stalled even one minute longer, one of them was going to make a choice they couldn’t take back.
Sloane’s gaze dropped once more to Reese’s mouth. Just a flicker—but enough to feel like gravity had shifted direction and decided Reese was the new down.
Reese’s breath caught. “Sloane …”
“Don’t,” Sloane whispered, though her body swayed closer as if her instincts had not received the memo. “Don’t say my name like that.”
“Like what?” Reese asked, her voice barely more than air.
“Like you want—” Sloane cut herself off, jaw tightening, as if the rest of the sentence was too dangerous to speak aloud.
But Reese heard it anyway. Wantme.
Reese didn’t move at first. She waited. She let Sloane feel the weight of her wanting, the safety of it, the invitation without pressure. She let the moment fill every inch of the dimly lit space.
And then, slowly, carefully, like testing the edge of a cliff, Reese slid her hand along Sloane’s cheek, into her hair.
Sloane inhaled sharply.
