Page 53

She finally looks at me then—only for a second, sharp and unreadable—but it’s enough to set my stomach spiraling. Then she turns again, striding for the elevator, coat whipping behind her, and I’ve got no choice but to follow. Forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes trapped in a car with her, breathing the same air, close enough to count her freckles if I wanted to. I’ll die. I’m fully going to die.

The ride down is a blur—her pressed into the corner of the elevator, arms crossed, me hovering like I’ve forgotten how to exist. And then we’re cutting through the lobby, glass doors shoving cold air and a torrential downpour down our throats. She doesn’t look back—simply sets her shoulders and threads the rows of parked cars, coat slick with water, heels biting into wet concrete until she stops at her car.

I open the passenger door and sink into the seat, heat crawling under my collar as she slides into her side. The leather’s stiff, cold, the faintest smell of coffee and vanilla clinging in the cabin. I shove wet hair off my forehead, swipe the sleeves of my jacket dry against my thighs and buckle my belt.

She jams the key into the ignition. The engine coughs and stutters, dashboard flickering like it can’t decide if it’s alive or not. Then, with a groan like an old man dragged out of bed, it rattles itself to life.

“She working alright now?” I ask, trying to fill the tension in the tight space.

“Yup,” she shoots back, not even glancing in my direction. Then she flicks the wipers once, smearing rain across the windshield, brushes a strand of hair out of her face, and hits play on the console. Music spills through the speakers, and without another word, she throws the car into reverse and pulls us out of the lot.

I force myself to flip open the file in my lap, eyes scanning numbers that won’t stick, client notes blurring into nothing. Because every time we shift lanes or slow at a light, I can feel her—the edge of her coat sleeve brushing the console, the scent of her shampoo through the air vents.

I want to say something—anything. Crack the silence. Fix the thing between us that has me feeling like I’m losing my damn mind.

I glance over at her. Her knuckles are blanched on the wheel, stuck at ten and two, completely unblinking.

“So…” I start. “You get a chance to look at the Veylar appendix update? It dropped this morning.”

“Yeah.”

“Uh—” I swallow hard. “It’s rough. I think we’re gonna have quite a bit of pushback.”

“Probably.”

I tap the corner of the folder against my knee. “I mean, it’s fixable, but they’re gonna need us to⁠—”

“Noah.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and let the tension fold right back in. Why can’t I find a rewind button? So I can go back to Saturday night and make sure I go home afterwards. Or maybe even a reset button so I don’t take the transfer and then maybe I’d meet her some other way…

The traffic thickens, bleeding into a bottleneck. Brake lights pulse red through the mist, crawling forward a few inches, then stopping again.

She sighs and drums her fingers once against the wheel.

Fuck it. She can’t run in here.

“Are we really going to do this?” I ask, angling myself toward her. “Pretend nothing happened between us?”

Her hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. “Do not start.”

“No, Sable. This is getting ridiculous.”

“It isn’t,” she snaps. “Everything’s fine.”

“Bullshit.” The word rips out of me and my eyes widen, shock rippling through my veins. Jesus, Noah. What the hell was that?

She goes stock-still, jaw clenching like she’s fighting back a shout.

“Sable.” I lower my voice and shift forward in my seat, heart hammering. “If you want to cut it off, just say it. But you don’t get to sit there and act like it’s fine. I’m not a mind reader. God—” I let out an awkward laugh. “You still won’t even look at me properly.”

The car seems to hold its breath with me; the wipers drag a slow heartbeat across the glass, a horn bleeds thin through the rain, and I bite down on the next words, fingers whitening around the file—wanting to press, to push, to do anything but drown in this—until the queue loosens and we creep forward, brake lights smearing red over wet asphalt.

She lets out the smallest breath—the slightest sigh. “Because looking at you makes it worse,” she mutters to the road.

Worse? Worse like a headache, like noise? Or worse like I make you reckless—like Sam and Eleanor and the fucking closet flash behind your eyes every time you see my face? Worse like HR policies and write-ups and you forgetting you’re careful? Or worse like wanting—like you’re fine until I look at you and you remember exactly how you sounded in my ear?

“Worse how?” The words slip out, thin and hoarse, before I can bite them back.