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My mind immediately deviates from the impending business crisis.
This might be the only real window of opportunity I ever get. A window where she’s single and we finally have a chance to spend a lot of time together. No more need for me to invent spurious reasons to visit Max, no more need to come up with increasingly inventive ideas for programs I can write to improve her planning systems. We’re going to be together twenty hours a week—for a brief period anyway.
This precious, limited time is a chance to get to know her properly. For her to get to know me properly. For her to see me as more than Max’s techie little brother who teases her.
“Yes.” Hallelujah, I found a word. “That’s fine. Great. Helpful. Yes.”
5
CHARLOTTE
Ishould probably let go of Elliot’s finger.
We’ve been frozen like statues for an uncomfortable number of seconds, with me squeezing the tissue to try to stop the bleeding, and him cradling the broken pot pieces in his other hand.
“You should?—”
“I should?—”
We talk at the same time.
I look up at him, my cheeks warming. His fair skin is also a little flushed.
We chuckle.
“I should put these down.” He raises the broken pieces of the sneaker pot. I’m sure he told me his mom gave it to him when he was a kid and first got into the Back to the Future movies, so he might be upset it’s smashed.
“Yes, I was going to say the same thing.”
He takes a step toward the table, and I go with him, still holding his finger. He winces as he leans to slide the pot fragments onto the table.
“Is the cut that painful?” I ask him.
“Oh, no. That was a back twinge.”
“How many injuries do you have today?”
“It’s an old baseball thing. I was the pitcher for the high school team. It’s generally okay if I take care of it. That’s why I go to the gym every morning. But it does flare up sometimes if I move weirdly.” He nods at the plant wreckage. “Like when I caused this carnage.”
Well, that’s two new pieces of Elliot information—he played baseball, and he has back twinges. Funny how you can think you know someone but not actually know any details of their lives.
His gaze moves to our locked hands. “Thanks, I’ll take over.”
“Oh, yes.”
He cups his fingers under mine to assume the tissue-holding duties. The heat from his palm warms the back of my hand.
It’s hard to let go. Why is it hard to let go?
This is silly. I have to let go.
Loosening my grip around his finger reveals a circle of blood on the tissue.
I slide my hand away, Elliot’s fingers brushing the backs of mine with a featherlight touch as he moves in to replace me and resume the pressure.
A tingle ripples up my arm from the contact. What the hell’s going on? That makes no sense at all.
Not that he isn’t great. And tall, and athletic, and good-looking. And kind, and thoughtful, and charming. And smart, and witty, and quietly sure of himself.
