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‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’
She brushed her hand over her hair. ‘I’ve yet to leave.’
‘Yeah, I got that much.’ He looked to the empty office and then to her desk, covered in various papers and several coffee cups. ‘You know, it’s not good to work this late.’
‘What can I say? I’m a workaholic.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ He sounded beat, and his eyes returned to her with a frown. ‘It’s been every night for the last two weeks, though. It’s not sustainable.’
‘I have things to get done.’
‘Those “things” can wait until tomorrow.’
‘Not these.’
‘Christ, Jennifer.’ He thrust his hand through his hair. ‘What is this about? You can’t always work like this.’
He was concerned for her wellbeing. It was obvious now. And it warmed her through, its effect as powerful as the desire she so missed. She liked it that he cared, regardless of whether it was wise or not.
She gave a small smile. ‘I’m more used to it than you know.’
‘But you’ve done your father proud already. You don’t need to keep on pushing—’
‘This is not about my father,’ she interjected without thinking. A strange softening sensation curled its way in—he’d listened to her, really listened.
‘Then what is it?’
He leant against the doorframe, his frown deepening, his presence dominating her vision and the scent of freshly applied aftershave filling the air. Suddenly she felt inadequate. Her hair was falling out of its bun, and her dress was crumpled from her sitting down for the best part of a day. God knew what she smelt like. And now he was asking why she was like this. Why?
She bit into her bottom lip. Because of you! she wanted to scream. Because you can’t offer me more.
‘Tell me,’ he said, pushing off the doorframe and closing the gap between them. ‘I’m worried it’s because you think you’re somehow giving up by leaving—’
‘I’m not leaving,’ she cut in. ‘I’ll be just as present from my desk up north.’
‘Okay.’ His eyes widened, his palms raised outwards. ‘I meant splitting your time between Yorkshire and here.’
She crossed her arms around her middle, not liking the unease creeping in. ‘It’s doable.’
‘I agree—it is.’ He nodded. ‘But I worry you’re having trouble believing it.’
‘I believe it just fine,’ she said, shaking her head and feeling her hair falling across her face. She saw him move to touch it and backed away.
‘Sorry.’ He bowed his head, raising his hand to rub at the bridge of his nose instead, his stress permeating the air.
Should she say something? Anything? Like, It’s okay?
But it wasn’t.
He took a long, drawn-out breath, lowering his hand as he lifted his gaze to her. ‘Then is it me?’
She froze, her cheeks chilling, his accurate conclusion startling her. ‘I’ve always worked hard.’
‘I know.’ His eyes pierced her, their depths earnest, deep with concern. ‘But I feel like this is different, like I’m somehow to blame.’
‘Marcus, don’t flatter yourself,’ she blustered, raising her chin. ‘I’m working because I want to.’
He looked as if he would argue further, and she spoke over him.
