I feel bad, backing him into another corner, and so instead of pressing, I offer him my own truth instead. “I know what I want, if that’s helpful.”
His gaze tangles with mine.
“I would like a chance for us to be together.”
25
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I hold my breath and brace myself. A million reasons, remember? He’s going to pluck one of them out of the air and present it to me as evidence why, even as mature adults, sometimes it doesn’t matter what two people want, they still can’t be together.
“Martha.” My name on his lips is a tortured sound.
I know there’s abutcoming. Maybe before some sweet words, maybe after, but it is definitely coming. I hold up my hand a second time to stave it off. “I should probably do the ladylike thing and demure. Fade into the background quietly, so to speak. But I think I would be ashamed of myself if I didn’t fight for what I wanted. And as stated, what I want is you, Julien. I want a chance for there to be anus.”
He swallows thickly before asking, barely above a whisper, “Are you asking me to choose?”
“I would never do that,” I assure him, my heart breaking for him just a little at the confliction written all over his face. “This isn’t a nonconsequential decision. There are too many high stakes at risk here. Your dad’s health, people’s jobs, and—although it seems to weigh significantly less stacked against those, I still think it’s worth an awful lot—my heart. You saidyou liked me more than you should. The question is, do you like me enough to try to figure out a way for us to be together, even with all that stacked against us?”
He’s staring down at the plates between us as if he’s afraid if he looks at me, he’ll lose his resolve.
The thought buoys my spirit.
“I just don’t see how it could work,” he finally says, resigned.
I make a tsking sound. “I know you’ve got more creativity than that in you.”
A corner of his mouth twitches.
“I’m going to go ahead and dismiss the most obvious solution, which would be for Squire to contract a different author.”
His gaze finally rises to meet mine. “That was never on the table.”
“Thank you for believing in me.”
His hand curls into a fist by his coffee cup. “I’m sorry for what my dad said to you all those years ago about your writing. I don’t know what he was thinking, because it’s easy for anyone who can read to see that you’re brilliant.”
“It’s sweet that you’re getting upset for me, but you’re actually opening a separate can of worms. Let’s try to find solutions to one problem at a time, shall we?”
This time when he starts to shake his head, it’s with a soft smile on his lips. “You’re incredible, do you know that?”
Heat infuses my cheeks that has nothing to do with my sunburn. “Thank you.” I press a hand to my stomach in an effort to get the butterflies taking flight in there to settle down. “Now,” I say in my librarian voice, “back to the topic at hand. Do you want to figure out a way where we can both work togetherandbe together?”
He reaches around the omelet plate and takes my hand. His thumb runs soft lines across the dips and valleys of my knuckles. He’s staring at the movement, as hypnotized by the soft touch as I am.
When he lifts his eyes, the blue of his irises turns from the calmness of a clear sky to the burning of a hot flame. “I can’t think of anything that I have ever wanted more.”
I try to swallow past the thickness in my throat and hang on to that maturity I’d been flaunting not too long ago instead of succumbing to the giddy girl inside me screaminghe likes me, hereally likes me.
“Good.” The word comes out like a croak, so I clear my throat and try again. “Good.” I take a sip of water, then lick my lips. “What about filing a statement with HR?”
He tilts his chin as he considers my suggestion, his thumb still lighting a path across the back of my hand. “Disclosing a personal relationship would be a necessary first step. In fact, I believe I heard rumor of at least one interoffice romance, so I’m sure there’s a protocol already in place.”
“Good.”
You’re claiming to be an author, Martha. Surely you can think of another word besides thatone.
But the thing is, Julien’s touch is kind of scattering my brain at the moment.
“Oh, sorry.” He laughs self-deprecatingly. “You probably need your hand to finish breakfast.” He gives my fingers a squeeze before letting go.
