I kissed her carefully. I kissed her like a man who knew exactly where every line was and had made a private contract with himself about which ones he was crossing and which ones he wasn’t.
Her mouth was soft and warm and tasted faintly of the white wine she’d been holding, and she made a small sound against my lips that I was probably going to think about for the rest of my life. Her hand came up off the stone ledge and rested flat against the lapel of my jacket. She didn’t grab. She didn’t pull me closer. She just set her hand on my chest and left it there.
I kissed her for maybe four seconds.
It felt like one. It felt like an hour. It felt like the only thing I’d ever done that mattered.
I broke the kiss.
I didn’t step back. Her hand was still on my chest. My thumb was still at her cheekbone. I could feel her breath on my mouth, and I let the moment sit there for one more beat before I made myself speak.
“You can still tell me to stop,” I said.
“I’m not telling you to stop.”
“Joss.”
“Sutton.”
I closed my eyes. I let myself stand there for two more seconds with my hand on her face and her hand on my chest and the June night sitting on us. And then I did the hardest thing I’d done all year, which was step back.
I let my hand drop from her jaw.
She let her hand drop from my chest.
We stood there a foot apart, looking at each other, breathing.
“You have a partner reception to go back to,” I said.
“I know.”
“I have a partner from Ohio waiting for me.”
“I know that too.”
I almost smiled. I didn’t.
“You’re going to walk back into that room,” I said, “and you’re going to be a junior PM at a partner event. And I’m going to walk back into that room and be a CEO. And we’re both going to do that for another hour, and then we’re going to leave separately, and you’re going to go home, and I’m going to go to my condo. And tomorrow, we’re going to be at the same office.”
She nodded. Once.
“Can we do that?” I asked.
“I can do that.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
I reached up and tucked a loose piece of her hair back into place. The same gesture from Monday night. Different stakes.
I picked up her wineglass from the stone ledge and handed it to her. She took it.
I opened the glass door for her. She walked through it ahead of me. I stayed a step behind her on purpose, my hand at the small of her back as we crossed back into the reception space, myfingertips against the silk of her dress, the flat of my palm at the curve just below her ribs.
I let my hand stay there one beat longer than I should’ve.
Then I let it drop.
