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“No,” he says, energy shifting. It’s a little sad. “I have trouble doing things that don’t make my clients money. They depend on me, and I struggle with wasting time.”
I study him, thinking about the things I enjoy. That’s one thing I can say about myself—I’m good at enjoying myself. “But if it makes you happy, shouldn’t you pencil it in?”
“I don’t have a lot of time to consider that.”
I frown, a little alarmed. “You’re never happy?”
He turns his eyes to mine, and they’re so naked. “I’m not sure what my baseline for happiness is…what that feels like anymore.”
He falters, then seems like he’s going to say something else. I wait, but he goes silent. His energy drops. I touch his chest and rest my palm on it. I think his walls are coming back up. Does he regret being that honest?
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, releasing a short sigh. “I got some work shit that came up. Marion texted me earlier, and I was thinking I should make a few calls at least before we go to bed.”
My heart sinks, but not with surprise.
“That’s fine,” I say, drawing back. “I know you can’t ignore your work.”
“Oh, I can ignore it. I just have to smooth some ruffled feathers.”
He gets up and heads downstairs. I force myself not to ruminate. This is our little bit of time where it’s only us, and nothing is going to ruin it. So, I wait until he’s probably done with his phone calls, get dressed, and go downstairs. He’s leaning on the counter, swiping his phone, but he sets it aside right away.
“Hey,” he says.
“You want to go for a walk or something?” I ask. “It’s really nice out.”
He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
I put on a sweatshirt, and he goes out in his T-shirt. I say I don’t know how he’s not cold, but he says it’s the perfect temperature. It’s such a normal conversation…a couple’s conversation. We cross the lawn to a winding path along the woods. Leaves crunch beneath our feet. The air smells so damn good, not like fall in Wyoming. This is a crisp, cold, east kind of smell: rotting leaves and damp wood and fresh air. It’s so perfect.
“Can I?” I ask, holding out my hand.
He looks down.
“Well, fuck,” he says. “Of course.”
He slides his fingers around mine. Big, a little rough. And so safe. I glance up and can’t bite back a shy smile. Tingles run along my arm, through my chest long enough to warm it, then all the way to my toes.
We don’t talk for a while, and when we do, it’s about nothing in the best way. What things we like. He watches movies—which I’m surprised by because of how busy he is, but he’s quick to add it’s almost always on a plane—and he tells me what he liked best out of everything he saw. Turns out, we have a lot of overlap. I talk about my favorite books, and he tells me which ones he likes. I don’t know what I was expecting—maybe some business books—but he says he likes horror and sci-fi. I tell him I like fantasy, and he says I should give him some recommendations.
We have lunch, and the conversation winds on and on.
All the way to evening.
We don’t fuck right away. Instead, he turns on the TV, and we pick something we’ve both watched before. I curl up against his side. He pulls me to lie across his lap, my head on his thigh.
His fingers play with my hair. We’re both quiet without any pressure to speak.
Is this what I walked away from?
Because now I have two things I’m going to regret. Damned no matter what I choose.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
JAMIE
The next morning, we don’t get out of bed. At one point, she reaches for her clothes, but I toss them out of her reach and bury my head between her thighs. I don’t want to leave this tiny space of safety. She smells so goddamn good. Feels so goddamn good. The sex is unbelievable, but it’s everything else that won’t let me cut bait and put my ass back on a plane.
