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“Good morning,” she says, voice catching as she sets my coffee down with an unsteady hand.
“Morning.” I clear my suddenly dry throat. “Thank you,” I say, nodding toward the coffee.
Silence follows, shifting the air from hot and needy to cool and cautious. I hate how uncomfortable it is. Needing a distraction, I sip my coffee as Jules settles into the chair across from me and lets her workbag slide off her shoulder. She crosses her legs, brushes her hair back, and I’m drawn to the way her black dress empathizes her cleavage.
Giving myself a mental kick, I drag my gaze to her face, but she doesn’t quite meet my eyes, and that stings. I don’t like this strained rift between us. This vibe of shame.
There is not a goddamn thing that’s shameful when it comes to Jules.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m trying to be,” she says, lifting her chin, and my heart skips a beat at the vulnerability in her expression. “Are we crazy for trying to continue as if nothing happened?”
“Probably, but I’d rather try than not see you.”
“Me too.” She lets a beat pass. “I got a visit from Detective Riley yesterday after you left. I told him you were with me over the weekend.”
“I’m sorry I got you caught up in this.”
“It’s not your fault, Cash.”
“Knowing it doesn’t make me feel any better.”
Hesitation lines her face. “Have you heard anything from the authorities yet?”
“No.”
Questions swim in her brown eyes.
She needs answers.
She needs Monica found.
She needs to move past this.
I want to believe she needs to be with me like she needs air.
“I’m here for you if you need to talk,” she says finally.
The things I want from her are downright indecent and have nothing to do with talking. I exhale the tension in my lungs and lean forward, folding my hands atop the desk.
“I don’t want to talk about my wife, Jules.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right.”
“Don’t be sorry. I just think we have enough to deal with already.”
Like the festering attraction between us that isn’t about to go away even if Seattle dries up and becomes a desert-like wasteland. But Jules wants to put on the brakes, and I respect her decision. I even understand it. Doesn’t mean I like it. Doesn’t mean I can even fight this yearning much longer.
“Maybe this will be easier if we lay down some rules,” I say.
A smile teases the corners of her entirely too-kissable lips. “Rules are good. I mean, they worked so well before, right?”
Christ, I love her sarcastic mouth. “At least when we fail we do it spectacularly well.”
Cheeks flaming, she dips her head, and all of that blond and wavy hair spills over her shoulders. She pulls her tablet from her bag, and with a swipe of her finger, she’s back to business.
“You’ve got a meeting with the budget committee at ten, then a conference call with the construction foreman in OKC after lunch.”
