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Fuck, I need to get away from her.
She’s too tempting. Too sweet.
Just too much.
I head to the fridge, flinging it open and grabbing the pitcher of lemonade she made yesterday. It’s a rare day I drink anything other than water, but I need something to take the edge off.
I’d rather the wine we had last night, but lemonade will have to do. I messed up once, I can’t do it again.
“Isaac—” I don’t look at her as I pull a glass from the cabinet. “Are you drinking lemonade?” I nod, my back still to her, but I can’t miss the shock in her voice. Sighing, I bring the glass to my lips, wincing as the tart, too-sweet liquid hits my tongue. I hate this shit.
“Hell,” I choke. “Did you use a whole bag of sugar?” I turn toward her and lean against the counter, still wanting to keep as much distance between us as possible. Not for the first time, I wish our small square-shaped kitchen was bigger. Maybe if we had an island, I could hide behind it the way I want to hide behind my lies.
“What—no.” She lets out an irritated huff as she points to the pitcher. “I used the normal amount. Stop distracting me! Why did you leave this morning? You called for me but didn’t wait.”
“I was letting you know I was leaving,” I say, feigning a nonchalance I don’t feel. Is it hot in here? My fingers shake as I fumble with the top button of my dress shirt. “Just like I do every other Sunday.”
“No,” she drawls, her cute brows pinched taut. “We drive together, especially during the summer. You know how hot it is. I was all sweaty—”
“Everyone was sweaty, sweetheart,” I say gently, hiding my smile at her dramatics. She huffs out another breath, rolling her eyes as she looks around the kitchen. “I didn’t know walking would upset you so much.”
“It’s not about the walking,” she mumbles. I take another sip, holding in a gag at the overly sweet drink. I turn and pour the rest down the drain, choosing my preferred water over this liquid diabetes concoction. “It’s just—last night—”
I drop the glass in the sink, wincing as it bounces off the porcelain. Luckily, it doesn’t shatter, but I wish it would’ve. It would’ve been the perfect excuse to not talk about this. To ignore what happened. Just for a bit longer.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath, forcing my racing heart to slow. “Drop it, Eve.”
“But—” I whirl around to face her again, my hands gripping the edge of the counter. She’s closer now, her face open and completely readable.
That’s what I’ve always loved about Eve. That she doesn’t try to hide her emotions, I can read them clearly on her face.
“Look, about that,” I sigh, and her doe eyes widen innocently. “Last night was—”
“Don’t say it was a mistake,” she whispers, her throat bobbing. “Please.”
I stare at her, my fingers digging into the old wood. It wasn’t a mistake. I don’t know what it was, but mistake doesn’t feel right.
Instead of saying anything, though, I push off the counter and head toward the stairs. I just need time to think. To figure out exactly what I want. What we need.
“Isaac!” she cries, following after me. I say nothing, quickening my pace.
Our footsteps are loud as we climb the steps. The temperature in our home grows with every thump of my feet against the cursed staircase I hate so fucking much, and I find myself choking on the stagnant air. My eyes flutter and I mindlessly begin to unbutton my too-tight shirt once more.
Before I make it to my door, she grabs my wrist. “Stop.”
The single whispered word is like an atom bomb dropping into the center of our house. Just like that, Eve implodes my carefully laid plans with the snap of her dainty fingers. I take a deep breath, praying for patience, my free hand braced on the wall, my back still to her.
“Let me go,” I say softly, but she doesn’t.
Breathe in.
“Why didn’t you tell me about running for mayor? Why would you tell Mary and not me?” she asks, her voice shaky.
Breathe out.
My brows push together, and I slowly turn around, balancing on the step above her.
“What?”
