“Owen claims he has too much oxygen.”
Reid opened a cabinet, stared inside it, then closed it without taking anything.
“I don’t usually discuss private matters with employees.”
“Understood.”
“I’m not ashamed of them.”
“Also understood.”
His gaze found mine. “I don’t want you thinking you need to hide here.”
The room smelled of varnish, dust, and hot metal.
Rain tapped the small window.
Every instinct I had developed in Denver told me to deflect. Laugh. Deny. Protect the vulnerable part of myself before anyone else could reach it.
Instead, I said, “I wasn’t certain you knew about me.”
“I knew.”
My heart lurched. “How?”
His eyes flicked away, then back.
“The way you watched me.”
Heat climbed from my collar to my scalp.
Reid’s own face colored above his beard. “That came out wrong.”
“No, it didn’t.”
“I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”
“You weren’t.”
“I only meant—”
“I understand.”
We both became fascinated with the concrete floor.
After several unbearable seconds, I asked, “Was I obvious?”
Reid raised his head.
That tiny break appeared in his restraint again.
“No,” he said quietly. “I wish you had been.”
We did not kiss that afternoon.
We did not kiss the next day either.
Reid believed romance between an owner and an employee was a spark beside spilled fuel. I believed men like him did not choose men who arrived in town with debt, exhaustion, and their life stacked in storage tubs.
