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The first held phones and meals and a sentence about play. The second held things I wanted and things I didn’t. Between them, in handwriting going two different directions, we had made room for both people.

Cash watched me read.

“Anything missing?”

“Almost certainly.”

“Doesn’t have to be finished today.”

“No.”

I underlined the review date.

Then I set the pen down.

“When do we start?”

His eyes held mine.

I hadn’t intended the question to sound the way it did.

Or perhaps I had.

The air in the bunkhouse seemed warmer than the sun could account for.

Cash shifted in his chair, carefully.

“Not today.”

I blinked.

It was ridiculous to feel rejected by a man who had just agreed to exclusivity in writing.

My body managed anyway.

“Oh.”

“Priya.”

“I understand.”

He waited.

I looked at him.

His mouth moved, but he didn’t smile.

“I want you,” he said.

The sentence came without decoration.

My breath caught.

“I’m not saying no because I’m unsure about that.” Cash leaned forward, forearms on the table. “When we start that part, I want you wide awake and certain. Not trying to fit it into the first morning you’ve had enough energy to notice what you want.”

“That was a very long sentence for ‘I’m being sensible.’”

“Had to work for it.”