“Momentum is half the battle,” Graham said.
Owen lifted his phone. “I may have captured the healing moment.”
“Delete that,” Graham said.
Nick released Graham’s shirt and stepped back.
“Stay on the track,” he said.
“To avoid wildlife?” Graham asked.
“To avoid becoming paperwork.”
I pressed my lips together, but the laugh escaped anyway.
His eyes cut to mine, and the look that passed between us was not private enough for my peace of mind.
The drive back was quieter.
The late sun turned the track copper and threw long shadows from the thorn trees. The second vehicle followed at a safe distance, its outline rising and falling through the dust behind us. Naomi’s voice drifted from the back seat now and then, low with Alina’s, while Graham appeared to have fallen into a contemplative silence that may have been wine, emotional growth, or a nap.
Nick drove without speaking for several kilometers.
The jacket was still around my shoulders. It held the day’s accumulation: cellar cool, terrace heat, woodsmoke from his cabin, the faint clean edge of his soap. The scent should have faded by now. Instead, it had woven itself through the collar and into the hollow beneath my jaw.
“You meant it,” I said.
He kept his eyes on the track. “Yes.”
No question. No request for clarification.
“About us,” I added.
“Yes.”
“You’re very comfortable with one-word answers.”
“They work.”
“They create operational inefficiencies.”
That earned the smallest sound from him, almost a laugh but held too low to count. “Do they?”
“Yes. They force the other person to do excessive interpretive labor.”
His gaze moved briefly to me. “You enjoy labor.”
“I enjoy strategy.”
“Then strategize.”
The word should have annoyed me. It did annoy me. It also slid under my skin and stayed there, because he was not challenging me to escape him. He was challenging me to stop pretending I had already decided to.
“My life is in Florida,” I said.
“I know.”
“My company is there.”
