I dip my head enough to give her time to pull back. She doesn’t. Her lashes flutter shut, a silent answer that steals the air from my lungs.
The first press of my mouth to hers is tentative. Questioning. Her breath hitches, the sound catching between us. Then she leans in, and the question becomes an answer.
Her fingers slide up my chest, light and unsure, while my hand finds her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek. She melts into me. Not fully, but enough to feel the shift. Enough to make me forget we're standing in a barn with a tangle of lights above our heads and the professional boundaries we've both been trying to maintain.
It starts slow and ends in a rush. Too much and not enough, all at once.
When we break apart, it's as if gravity reasserts itself.
Maddy pulls back like she's just remembered where we are and who we are. She takes a shaky step away, her hand lifting to her mouth, fingertips resting against her lips like she can still feel mine there.
"That..." she starts. "That can't happen. That was ... what was that?"
"A mistake," I say.
She flinches.
"Right," she says. "Unprofessional. It was ... the moment. Fairy lights. Romance. Lack of sleep."
"Caught up in the success of the project," I say. "Common psychological response."
"A psychological response," she repeats.
"We both know this can't be a thing. We are incompatible."
"Yes. You're bespoke suits. I'm emergency sparkly stuff. You make spreadsheets. I make things explode. Disaster."
"Complete disaster."
"So, we agree," she says. "This was a one-time, regrettable mistake."
"Agreed."
"And it never happened."
"It's already forgotten."
"Good," she says.
She turns away and yanks the tangled lights free with a sharp, practiced motion. The conversation is over.
I watch her, the air still humming with what occurred and what we’re both pretending didn’t. The barn is already shifting back to real life, but some part of me is still standing in Paris.
It’s the most professional decision we could make.
So why does it feel like I lost a case I didn’t know I was fighting?
CHAPTER FIVE
MADDY
Friday afternoon finds me standing in the baking aisle of River Bend Market, staring at an overwhelming selection of cake mixes. Two versions of me wage a silent, vicious war in my head.
It never happened, insists the part of me that runs on checklists and contingency plans. It was a momentary, atmospheric-pressure-induced, regrettable mistake. He is a temporary fixture in a workspace you share with your best friends. This is a business arrangement. End of story.
Then there's the other Maddy. The one who still feels the ghost of his thumb stroking her jaw, who remembers the shocking, world-tilting rightness of his lips on hers. She keeps replaying the kiss on a continuous, high-definition loop, ignoring my logical side's sensible cease-and-desist order.
Daniel was a good kisser, too. Polished. Confident. His kisses always felt like a promise, right up until he broke it. But Daniel's kisses never made my toes curl.
