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She drops her arms and shakes her head. “I’m going back to my place. This is silly.”
It’s more than that, but I’m not willing to define it.
“I’ll come with you.”
“Archer—”
“Benji’s parents died in a car accident,” I snap. “It happens. Don’t act like it couldn’t have.”
She twists her mouth in sympathy.
“I haven’t thought of that in a long, long time. Until today.” Fresh fear electrifies my arms as I picture what could have happened to Talia.
“I hate that for him.” Her eyelids lower. “Losing a parent is hard. Losing two would be unbearable.”
She seems to fortify herself then, nodding curtly as she palms my arm with her right hand. “I’m going back to my place. I can do a little work while I’m there. I want to change into something more comfortable, anyway.”
“You work too much,” I bark, my frustration at its peak. Her pushing me away reminds me there is a bigger goodbye hovering on the horizon like a doomsday meteor. Her mouth is taut, her eyes tired. And tired is a nice word for it. She looks completely exhausted. “You have to pace yourself. I have received emails this week from you with timestamps at eleven p.m., two a.m., and four a.m. It’s ridiculous.”
“You’re one to talk,” she huffs around a humorless laugh. “You work more than I do.”
“You’re not me.”
“And you’re not my father,” she says sharply. “My hours are none of your business. There is a contract between us, in case you’ve forgotten. Nowhere in it does it say you can mandate when I do or don’t work.”
“Nowhere in it does it say you can borrow my car or have sex with me either, but we’ve done that.”
“And maybe that was a mistake.” Her voice is hard. “You promised not to apply pressure when I arrived here. What happened?”
She happened. She happened all over the place.
“I feel…” I swallow hard and try to come up with a way to reverse out of the argument we’re having. “Responsible for you.”
“I’m not your responsibility, Archer. I’m your consultant.”
Such a dry way to describe what we mean to each other. Pissed about the sterile term, as well as her hinting that we shouldn’t have slept together, I say, “Take the Advil with you. Two every four—”
“Hours. I know. I can set an alarm on my phone. I don’t need you to remind me.”
She walks downstairs. I stand in my empty bedroom, hands propped on my hips, looking at the bed we could be rolling around in if I would have agreed. I have many valid reasons for refusing her. And, hell, maybe some space would be good for us. We’ve gone from a long-distance working relationship to one intense, sex-filled Florida night to practically living together, all in the span of a few weeks.
I’ll give her tonight to herself.
We can reconfigure in the morning.
