“I’m trying, but it’s hard. And I’m so scared I’m failing at both.” Her voice cracks. “That I’m not giving Ella enough attention, and I’m not giving the work enough focus, and I’m just… mediocre at everything.”
“Georgia.” I squeeze her hand. “You’re not mediocre atanything. You’re extraordinary. You’re patient and brilliant and dedicated. Ella is lucky to have you.”
She blinks rapidly, and I realize there are tears in her eyes. “Sorry,” she says with a watery laugh. “I didn’t mean to get emotional. I’m just tired.”
“Don’t apologize. We’re both tired.”
“Heavy is the head that wears the crown?”
“Something like that.”
We sit there, hands still joined across the table, and something shifts. The air feels different. Charged. I should let go. Shouldpull back. Should remember every rule I’ve made about not mixing business and personal.
But I don’t want to.
“Calvin,” she says softly, “can I ask you something else?”
“Sure,” I say, though my heart is racing fast and I’m not sure if I’m more nervous or excited.
“Why are you single?”
The question surprises me. “What?”
“I looked you up. Before I agreed to this project. ‘One of New York’s most eligible bachelors,’ according toPeoplemagazine. So, why are you still single?”
I should deflect this too. But that same urge toward honesty keeps me talking. “Because I’m not good at relationships. Every woman I’ve dated eventually wants more than I can give. More time, more attention, more emotional availability. They want someone who’ll put them first, and I… can’t seem to do that. Work always comes first. Until they leave, and then I realize too late what I lost.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? I thought so, once or twice. But it never felt like what people describe. Maybe I’m just… incapable of it.”
“I don’t believe that,” Georgia says. “I think you’re scared of it.”
The accuracy of that statement takes my breath away. “Maybe,” I admit. “My father trained me to see everything as a transaction. Relationships became one more thing to manage, to control. And when you can’t control something…”
“You push it away.”
“Yeah.”
Georgia is quiet for a moment, studying our joined hands. “For what it’s worth, I understand. After Mike—Ella’s father—left, I convinced myself I was better off alone. That my judgment was broken, that I couldn’t trust myself to choose well. And it’s easier, in some ways. Safer. No one can disappoint you if you don’t let them in.”
“But?” I sense there’s abutcoming.
“But lonely,” she finishes softly. “It’s also really lonely.”
Our eyes meet, and the air between us feels electric.
I should let go of her hand. Should stand up, say goodnight, go to my tent. Instead, I hear myself ask, “Are you lonely right now?”
“No,” she whispers. “Right now, I’m… not lonely.”
I don’t remember deciding to stand. Don’t remember walking around the table. But suddenly I’m there, standing in front of her, and she’s looking up at me with those warm brown eyes, and I can see her pulse fluttering at her throat.
“Georgia,” I say, and my voice comes out rough. “I’m not good at this. At feelings, at vulnerability, at any of it.”
“I’m not great at it either.”
“And you drive me crazy half the time.”
