Page 67 of Forced Proximity

A few hours later, I park my Jeep in front of Justin’s fountain and hop out, filled with the same sensation as when I throw on my favorite hoodie the moment fall hits.

‘Welcome back,’ Jack says as he exits the house. ‘You ready to return?’

‘I’ll let you know at midnight when we swap shifts.’ I grin, but I already know. Two minutes in and my stomach uncurls from its week-long knot. ‘Walk me through everything I missed.’

After Jack’s debrief, I head inside and move into the kitchen. The sound of approaching footsteps perks my ears, and my stomach flutters.

‘Hey!’ A shirtless, sweat-misted Justin bounces into the kitchen with a huge smile and a towel wrapped around his neck.

God, that perfect V at his torso taunts me. If I could just dig my fingers there one time … I swipe my tongue on my bottom lip but then spin away.

I will not, under any circumstance, allow my feelings to get in the way ever again. This is my second chance to prove I’m worthy of this position, and I’m not fucking it up. I can’t believe the last time I was in this kitchen Justin was helping me on the floor. ‘Hey.’ I curse the heat in my cheeks. ‘Sounds like quite a bit happened since I was here last.’

‘That’s an understatement.’ Justin lines up apples, carrots and spinach on the counter. ‘Green juice?’

‘Sure, thanks.’ I pull out the chair at the island and flip open my laptop. The words blur. God this is so awkward, but I have to address the Hollywood-sign-size elephant in the room. What happened on the dance floor. The fight with him and Conner. Whatever’s happening between us. There’s something here. I can feel it, I’m sure he can feel it, too. But I’m an employee. And I want to be back here. But that means everything else needs to stop.

Friendly, fine. Flirty, not fine.

He tosses the items in the blender, fills up two glasses and hands me one. After a few sips of the sharp, citrus juice, I exhale. ‘Hey, we need to talk …’

‘Now?’ he says, giving me a look that says he absolutely doesn’t want to talk about anything. I can appreciate the fact that he wants to seamlessly slide back in like nothing happened, but that’s not reality.

Oh, this is terrible. Terrible. Communication is the worst thing ever invented. I’d choose a dislocated shoulder over the conversation we need to have. I focus on the juice before I shift my gaze to meet his. ‘I need to be completely honest with you. There’s been some, ah, blurred lines between me and you.’ The words feel like glass shards. ‘I love that we get along so well. But I cannot risk your safety or my professional reputation. So, stuff like Conner, the dancing at the nightclub … it can’t happen.’ God, I hope he can’t hear the crack in my voice.

He leans against the counter with creased eyebrows, and several long, awful moments pass. Do I want him to say something? Drop it? Be silent? His eyes search mine and his mouth parts. But then he switches his gaze back to his glass.

‘Got it,’ he finally says.

Jesus, he needs to put a shirt on. I’m using every ounce of willpower to focus on his eyes and nothing else. Ten minutes into my first shift, and I’m already close to breaking my oath. It’s probably safer to stare at my screen, so I don’t drool. The shirtless scene in the movie I started watching during my time off was nothing like it is in person.

‘I … ah … thank you for your help when I was here last during my diabetic shock.’ I hate this. ‘I wanted to show you a couple of things in the extraordinary off chance it happens again, okay?’

His body perks. He grabs a shirt off the back of the chair, thank God, throws it on, and sits next to me. That scent. How can he still smell good after being all sweaty? Remnants from his morning shower, salted, misted skin. Heavenly.

I pull a few items from my bag and spread them across the counter. ‘These are glucose tabs, almost like candy.’ I palm a small pill bottle container. ‘If I drop, I should have the wherewithal to grab them. If not, I need about three or four, and then I’ll recheck my numbers.’

He tilts his head at the bottle. ‘Understood.’

‘This is my needle and insulin.’ I point to my vial and syringe. ‘You’ll never have to worry about this, but it’s good for you to know what it looks like. Low blood sugar is an imminent danger, not high blood sugar. Got it? I know in the movies they make dramatic scenes where people do an emergency injection, but that’ll never happen.’

‘Okay,’ he says with a nod.

So far, he’s giving no indication that he thinks I’m weak, and the tightness in my chest releases. ‘And this right here is a glucagon injector.’ I roll the object in my palm. ‘Similar concept to an EpiPen. This is in the most extreme cases. Administer this and call 911.’

‘The other week …’ His mouth twists. ‘Was that considered an extreme case?’

This is the absolute worst. ‘Yes. That would’ve been a time I needed it.’

‘May I?’ When I nod, he picks it up and reads the back. ‘How does it work?’

‘Since I have the pre-mixed one, just open it up and shoot it in my stomach or thigh. Someplace with a layer of fat it can stick to.’ I study his face for any sign of discomfort or hesitation, but his eyes are focused on the items. ‘I’ve managed my diabetes to near perfection for years. The chances of this happening again are slim, but not impossible. If you can’t handle this, tell me right now, and I’ll walk with absolutely no hard feelings.’

‘No chance.’ His voice is firm, and the corners of his lips turn up. ‘I just got you back.’

Why did he have to use those words? And in that way? Flutters rush through me and I chew on the inside of my cheek to stop from grinning. ‘You did the right thing when you gave me juice last week. That’s a good way to increase my blood sugar levels quickly. But if you don’t have juice, use Coke. If all else fails, give me straight white sugar.’

‘White sugar.’ He sets the injector back on the counter and shakes his head. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? Probably would’ve been easier for you to ingest.’