My crush developed during all those hours of working together—those hours that were full ofsmall gestures, friendly banter, and the kind of intellectual buzz that comes from working side by side with someone who is your intellectual match.
But my brain skitters away from saying the thing I need to say, and suddenly I find myself missing my scarf, which was so easy to play with and wrap around my hands last night. I need something to distract myself from what I’m about to say. What I need to say.
He just looks at me with an arched eyebrow. Waiting. Because, of course, he does.
“The thing is this: we’re such good friends.”You’re my best friend, I realize with sudden clarity. Even though until this weekend I’d never spent time with him outside of work. Which I realize is part of the problem. “We’re so good together at work. And until now, that’s all we were. You were a coworker. ‘My hawt coworker that I wanted to bone.’ In Rosa’s words.”
“Who’s Rosa?”
“My niece.”
He balks, looking slightly horrified. “You talk about who you want to bone with yourniece?”
“They adopted her when she was seventeen, so she’s an adult. It’s okay.” I wave away his obvious assumption that my niece is a child, worried that he’s getting lost in the weeds. “At some point duringthe weekend, you went from being my hot coworker Rosa thinks I should bone to being something else.”
His gaze narrows infinitesimally. “Are you putting me in the friend zone because I didn’t take advantage of you last night?”
“No! God, no. I just…”
Suddenly my heart is racing because I don’t know how to put into words how I feel about him. He’s not just Miller anymore. He’s so much more. He feels intrinsic to me now. I’m not even sure I’d be able to function without him.
I am perilously close to being completely, head over heels, bonkers in love with him. And that idea is brutally terrifying in a way I can’t put into words. Because I know howmuchI am. I’m too much. I always have been. I haven’t scared him off yet, but it’s only a matter of time.
“You’re just what?” he asks.
“I’m just terrified that if we sleep together it’s going to ruin our friendship.”
For an instant, he just stares at me. Tense. Coiled.
And then he pushes himself away from the door and crosses the room.
Surprised, I back up a step, but he keeps coming toward me until he’s got me backed against the wall. Suddenly his hands are in my hair and he’scupping my jaw, tilting it up so I have to look at him. He’s so close to me, but those are the only two places he’s touching me.
“Fuck that noise,” he growls. “If you don’t want me, fine. Tell me now. Say it to my face. Mean it. And if you do, I’ll walk away. But don’t even talk to me about not wanting to ruin our friendship. You really think we could still be friends after this? Now that I know what your skin tastes like? Now that I know you’ve thought about being with me, too? Because I can’t be friends with you after that. Forget about working together. Because that’s not going to happen.”
I gasp, gutted. Furious with myself for ruining this. For throwing away the most important friendship I’ve ever had. Furious with myself for the tears that are prickling at the back of my eyes.
“So that’s it? I ruined everything?”
And it’s not just me I’m furious with. I’m mad at him too. Because this is his fault, too.
I plant my palms against his shoulders and shove. “Well, fuck you. I’m trying to save our friendship here, and that doesn’t matter to you at all? And you know what’s worse? This is your fault.”
His hands drop to his sides the second I push him. And now he’s just standing there, staring at me. “My fault?”
“Yeah. Your fault. We wouldn’t be in this situation if you weren’t so damn perfect. With your kindness and your perfect abs. And your thoughtful behavior.”
I break off mid-rant, because —
“Are you laughing at me?”
He doesn’t answer. Once again he closes the distance between us, but this time he pulls me fully into his arms — my body against his, one of his hands on my back, the other against the back of my head, cradling me.
“You are…” he lets out a breath that falls warm against my hair.
And I’m about ninety-nine percent sure that the movement I feel in his chest is suppressed laughter. I’m tempted to kick him in the shin. Or cry for real. Instead, I ask, “What am I?”
He angles my head so that he’s almost kissing me, and I can feel his words against the corner of my mouth. “Ask me that question again in about an hour, okay?”
