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“Listen to me. You’ll never bejustJuniper Winkley.”
“I want to believe you,” I force out.
He pulls me closer so I’m looking up into his face, his hands tracing the line of my jaw. A crease deepens between his eyebrows and he wipes away a tear that slips out from my eye.
“Don’t you get it?” he says, his voice pure smolder. “You’re too fucking good for this.”
Before I have time to think about what he means bythis, he’s kissing me.
His lips are hard, claiming and desperate, but his hands are soft.
The tightness in my chest unravels a little.
We haven’t resolved anything, no, but I can still breathe when I’m with him. And I’m too afraid of what might happen if I walk away now.
So I obey, listening to his warmth and the pressure of his grip and let myself forget in the hopes he’ll never just be another sad memory.
* * *
The restof the week passes with the same heavy angst that runs under everything like a quiet pulse.
We finish the rest of the chocolate torte between our jobs, passing the evenings together again.
On the surface, it’s normal.
I don’t press him for hard answers he isn’t willing to give.
Still, it feels like time is running away with us, and there’s a new uncertainty opening up that feels like an ever-expanding pit.
If we’re not doing this to fool Haute anymore, then why?
I tell myself it’s okay.
It takes time for two lives to mesh, especially when we’re both so busy. He’s in meetings with his brothers and managing a real estate empire and I’m tied down at the bakery, working the longest hours ever.
Even if that means we’re talking less, what does it matter?
He still kisses me the same as before. More passionately, even.
Like he’s trying to convey whole emotions with his body that aren’t fit for words.
Then the weekend arrives.
I wake up alone, just like I have almost every morning this week. I wander downstairs to feed Catness and find him coming up from the basement gym.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, distracted as he glances at his phone. “You probably don’t want to kiss me right now. Morning breath.”
“You’re heading into the office again?” I fold my arms.
“I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“…but it’s Saturday.”
He looks up at me with a frown. He’s been doing that more and it’s slowly killing me, wishing I knew why.
Maybe I’m not so interesting anymore.
I’m certainly not his equal in business, in life, in anything.
