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“Cash—”

“For not asking,” he said. “Not for wanting to kiss you. I wanted that. But I should’ve asked instead of deciding I knew.”

I watched his thumb rest against the handle of his mug.

He went on before I could assemble a response.

“The room and the job aren’t contingent on anything.”

Those words. Flat. No wink to soften them.

“You don’t have to want me. You don’t have to talk about wanting me. You can change your mind about anything that happens between us, ever, and you still have a room and a job.”

My fork lay crooked beside the plate. I straightened it.

“Wyatt signs off on the budget,” I said.

“He does. Your work arrangement stays your work arrangement. I can put that in writing.”

“You don’t need to—”

“I want it clear.”

I looked at him then.

He hadn’t leaned closer. Hadn’t reached across the table. The entire width of it remained mine to keep.

I took a breath. “I wanted you to kiss me.”

His hand stopped on the mug.

“I need you not to make that face.”

“What face?”

“The one that makes this more difficult.”

He lowered his eyes for a second. When he looked back, he was serious again. “All right.”

“I wanted it,” I repeated. “I also wanted to leave afterward. Both were true.”

“Okay.”

“The second one wasn’t because the first one wasn’t.”

“I hear you.”

I rubbed a crumb between my finger and thumb until it broke apart.

This was the point where I usually found an actionable subject and escorted us toward it.

There were several available. The eggs. The tank. Whether a person who owned this many tools could repair his truck door.

I left all of them alone.

“There was a man in Denver.”

Cash waited.