"I have a theory," he said.
"About what?"
"About you."
"That sounds ominous."
"I think you use observations as shields. When something feels too big, too overwhelming, you retreat into facts. 'The sky is blue.' 'The counter is wet.' Safe statements that don't require you to feel anything."
She should have denied it. Instead, she said, "And what would you like me to say instead?"
"The truth."
"Which is?"
"That seeing me dripping on your counter makes you want to drag me upstairs and towel me dry. Very thoroughly. In ways that might involve removing my clothes."
Heat rushed to her face. "That's—I don't—you're?—"
He laughed, delighted. "There it is. The legendary Marigold Bloom articulation."
"I articulate just fine."
"You're blushing."
"I'm irritated."
"You're adorable."
"I'm going to throw this bouquet at your head."
"Mrs. Patterson would probably object."
She set down the bouquet before she actually did throw it. Her hands were trembling slightly, not with anger but with the effort of containing everything she was feeling.
"The truth," she said slowly, "is that I've been thinking about you constantly. All week. Every time I'm not with you, I'm thinking about when I will be with you again. It's distracting and annoying and completely unlike me."
"And?"
"And yes. Fine. Seeing you show up soaking wet because you 'didn't want to wait' makes me want to…" She gestured helplessly at the stairs that led to her apartment. "What you said. All of that."
His expression shifted. The playfulness was still there, but underneath it was something more serious. More intent.
"Then why don't you?" he asked quietly.
"Because it's the middle of the day. Because I have customers. Because—" She broke off, frustrated with her own excuses. "Because I've never done this before."
"Done what? Had a relationship?"
"Had something that felt like it might actually matter."
The words landed between them, heavy and true. He reached across the counter and took her hand.
"It matters," he said. "You matter. And we can take all the time you need. I told you—I'm not going anywhere."
"I know." She squeezed his hand. "I believe you. That's what's so strange. I actually believe you."
He lifted her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to her palm. "Tonight. We'll have dinner. We'll practice the dance. And whatever happens after that, whatever you want to happen or not happen, is entirely up to you."
