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An hour later, we’re sitting on the couch eating pizza. Neither of us has mentioned anything related to me working at Hammond, or us being together last Saturday night. But with the dinner over, I can feel the unspoken words hanging in the air.
Which one of us will be brave enough to broach the subject?
“Tessa.” He turns toward me on the couch, but the way he said my name makes the atmosphere shift from casual fun to serious. “I want to talk to you about Monday. I should’ve handled the whole thing better. I did some digging around and confirmed what you told me.”
“It’s okay. I have to take the blame for not telling you I dropped off my résumé and about my blog, especially after Don mentioned it.”
“But the thing is, even after a week away from you, you’re all I think about. Day and night. When I get my coffee, I remember the day I met you. I even had a cherry tart while in Paris. And I’m not a big fan.”
“Me too. Well not the coffee or cherry tart in Paris. More just sleeping in my bed alone. It’s then that I think about you the most …” my voice trails off, and his eyes darken.
“Do you miss me?” he asks in almost a whisper, daring to brush a hair off my cheek, leaving a tingle over my skin.
“Yes, so much it hurts.” My voice cracks as I speak through the pain in my chest.
“I feel like I’ll go mad if I don’t have you in my arms again,” he says, an aching longing in his voice.
“This isn’t helping Barclay.” I glance away, because looking at this beautiful man with troubled eyes breaks me.
“Text me when you get lonely and miss me. There’s nothing wrong with us doing that.”
I nod, looking up at him with cloudy eyes. Why does he have to be so perfect?
“Ah, fuck, don’t cry, Tessa. I want to be with you too. For now, sweet girl, all we can do is be friends. I miss you too much to have you completely out of my life.”
He reaches for my hand, encircling it with his. His thumb brushes my knuckles in a rhythmic back and forth motion, and my breaths become deeper, quicker. It’s simply too much, but I can’t move away from him. I need this connection.
We stay locked in this position for minutes, gazing at each other with faraway eyes, imagining dreams that can’t be realized.
“I can live with that. For now,” I whisper.
39
Barclay
Two weeks have passed since the babysitting fiasco night, or as I call it, the beginning of our platonic relationship, and it was the last time I’ve been alone with Tessa. We’ve shared crowded elevators at work. Sent friendly texts. I made sure mine were all innocent in nature, because the dirty things I want to tell her would get me fired and her dismissed.
Our hungry glances across the boardroom table during the weekly marketing meetings have left me aching to touch her soft skin again, kiss her lips, and devour every inch of her. Occasionally, I’m close enough to catch her perfume in the air. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can imagine her scent. It’s sealed in my memory as a form of self-torture.
Being apart from her hasn’t separated me from her. I feel an invisible thread connecting us, making me hyperaware of her presence. That’s how I know she arrived, at my father’s birthday party, before I even see her. I feel her essence in the air like a mist cooling my skin.
“Barc,” my sister says, grabbing my attention. We’re leaning against the terrace balustrade connected to my parents’ home. The party is below us on the lawn. “Isn’t that Tessa, the young woman you brought to the Warwick Awards? Over there by the pool house, next to the bar.”
I find Tessa before my sister finishes her question. She’s wearing the same dress from the night we first saw each other. Her shoulders are creamy smooth, and showcased by pink ruffles. I swallow back my desire for her with a swig of my bourbon.
“Yes, that’s her.” My voice is impassive, giving nothing away, while knowing my inquisitive sister will work me until she knows everything.
“Is she here as your date?” She turns toward me, scanning my face for a crack in my armor, and she’ll find it if she looks close enough.
“No,” I quip, watching Tessa beam at Mark, the new hire in accounting. “She works at Hammond now.”
My jaw tenses when he places his hand on the small of her back and leads her to the banquet buffet. As they walk together, he catches a lock of her hair and releases it. My fingers tighten around my bourbon glass. I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter to pieces. The fucker wants her.
