I’m probably a bastard for having used my talent to get her to forgive me, but I can’t play fair anymore.
Not when I’m so close to changing the principles I’ve lived my life by.
I’m not going to push my luck further either. Not tonight.
Knocking my knuckles against the doorframe, once, twice, thrice, I step back. "Goodnight, Harper."
"'Night, James."
Over the next week,I’m able to keep my feelings in control. I don’t ignore her, but I’m able to keep a professional distance from her at work.
But at home, I pull back every time I feel myself getting close to overstepping the line that keeps my emotions in check. I’m exhausted enough that at night, I manage to fall into a deep dreamless sleep. Only to wake up the next morning and do it all over again.
It’s Friday when, after a particularly stressful day at the restaurant, we walk into the apartment worn out.
I head straight for my bar and pour myself a sliver of whiskey and her usual glass of sauvignon blanc. We both need it after the day we’ve had.
She drops her bag on the couch and walks over to take a stool at the kitchen island.
When I place the glass of wine in front of her, she grabs it before I’ve completed the action, making our fingers brush. That same telltale frisson of awareness vibrates up my arm. I’m instantly so hard, I see stars. Fuck. All the neediness I’ve tried to keep at bay all week rushes forward like water brought to boil on a stovetop.
When her breath hitches, I know, she’s having the same reaction.
I retrieve my hand so quickly, I feel like I have whiplash.
Hurt flutters across her features. She grabs the glass and gulps down her wine, then bursts out coughing.
"Jesus, go slow, or you’ll be drunk before you know it." I pat her back, trying to help her breathe properly.
Only touching her means I’m aware of her. Of the warmth of herbody through her clothes, the scent of grease and seared meat, which clings to her hair, not quite masking her natural vanilla and coconut scent. I find myself wanting to bend and kiss her neck.
Luckily, I manage to take a step back before doing that. To be safe, I walk over to the barstool on the other side of the island, then take a sip of my whiskey.
She stiffens, no doubt having noticed my movement. Reaching for the bottle, she tops herself up.
"I need to be drunk." She scowls at the glass. "So, I can deaden the nerve endings on my feet."
"Do they hurt?" I grimace in sympathy.
"Don’t yours?"
"Of course. But pain is just data. You learn from it, catalog it, and move on." I shrug. "Pain is a frequency I’ve learned to tune out."
She snorts. "Thanks. Now I feel like a wimp."
"Not at all. You’re doing really well."
She raises her gaze to mine. "Thanks?" she says uncertainly.
"I mean it." I lower my chin. "You handled the oven malfunction mid-service, which affected multiple stations, with aplomb."
"Couldn’t have done it without you." She raises her glass at me. "You were cool under pressure. That was not what I expected."
I allow myself a small smirk. "You expected me to throw a tantrum?"
She eyes me over her glass. "You supported my backup plan without protest."
"It was a good plan. You redistributed the stations. Took the salamander broiler for all proteins, moved the fish to the undercounter fridge, switched pastry to cold desserts. The service ran ten minutes behind. But?—"
