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She hoped not. She needed her job. Liked her job. Liked him.
With nowhere to hide and the object of her infatuation a mere six inches away from her, she folded her hands in her lap and waited for his retaliation.
He didn’t respond the way she expected.
“Oh.”
That was what he said. Oh.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted. Lame.
“It’s fine.”
But he didn’t look fine. His mouth was a firm line, his elbows straight, his hands on the wheel in the ten-and-two position. She’d either blown up their friendship or lost her job. Neither of which she could face right now.
She stabbed the radio button and loud music crowded in with the heavy air in the car.
