Page 73 of Neap & Spring

“Why not?”

“Because —” I swallow loudly before trying again. “Because I don’t know how to tell you without falling apart. And I can’t fall apart. Not now. Not when we have ten days and the investors breathing down our necks and —”

“Okay.” Callum holds up both hands. “Okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have —”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you.”

“I know.”

“It’s that I don’t trust myself to say it out loud and still be functional.”

Understanding crosses his face.

He slides his chair closer to mine, closing the distance between us until our shoulders are touching.

We’re so close now. Close enough that I can smell the kitchen on him: garlic and butter and that herb I couldn’t identify earlier. Thyme, maybe? Close enough that I’m aware of his hands resting on the table in front of us. I am very aware of what those hands were doing mere hours ago, and even more aware that my body has not forgotten any of it.

“You have something —” He gestures vaguely at my face.

“I have something on my face?” I reach up and wipe at my cheek.

“Here.” His hand comes up slowly, like he’s giving me time to move away. His fingers are gentle at my temple, pushing a strand of hair back, his thumb grazing my cheekbone.

The touch is feather-light and careful. His fingertips barely graze my skin, but I feel it everywhere. My breath shortens, and warmth flows through me. My brain is still very much thinking about his hand on my thigh, slipping beneath my skirt like we weren’t in the middle of fighting for his restaurant.

I’ve gone completely still as his hand lingers, tucking the hair behind my ear, his thumb brushing against my cheekbone slowly.

And then he pulls back, clears his throat, and looks away.

“Sorry. You had — it was in your face.”

“Thanks,” I squeak out. My voice sounds strange even to me.

The air between us feels different now. Heavier and charged. Like we’ve been circling something all night and we both just got a little too close to the edge of it.

Callum stands up abruptly. “I should — I need to finish closing the kitchen.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course.”

“And you probably want to get back to —” He gestures at my laptop.

“Yeah. I should work on this.”

He nods, then starts to walk away. But he pauses at the kitchen door.

“Vivienne?”

I look up slowly, still dazed.

“We’re going to figure this out,” he says. “All of it. The plan, the restaurant, the — everything.”

“I know.”

He holds my gaze for another second, and I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. If he can see how scared I am and how much I want this to work. Not just for professional reasons, but because it’s his restaurant. His dream. And the thought of it failing makes my chest hurt so bad in a way that has nothing to do with my contract.

Then he’s gone, back into the kitchen, and I’m alone with my laptop and the ghost of his touch on my face.

I raise my hand to my cheek, pressing my fingers where his had been.