Page 76 of The Silent Hour

“Responsible.” I looked at my watch—its faint tick felt loud in the silent office. “You’re not driving.”

“I took a car,” she snapped.

“Good. Take another one home.”

She stared at me, dark eyes blazing in the glare of the desk lamp. “That’s it?”

“What exactly are you expecting?” I asked, voice steady.

“I don’t know.” Her honesty stunned me. She uncrossed her arms, pressing her hands to her sides. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

For the first time since she’d come in, she looked less like the polished associate with the impeccable posture and more like a woman whose carefully separated worlds had shattered at the seams.

“Go home, Lila.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Do you believe me?”

“About what?”

“That I didn’t know.” Her voice cracked, vulnerability flickering across her cheeks.

I could have lied—said of course I believed her—but the words tasted sour. “I don’t know you well enough to answer that.”

Pain flashed in her eyes before she masked it with a practiced flick of her lashes. “Right.” She reached for her purse. “Of course.”

I stepped aside to let her pass, expecting that to be the end. Instead, she stopped. Too close. I caught the faint tang of wine on her breath, the soft swirl of her Jasmine perfume—the same heady scent I'd noticed the first time she’d come in.

My wife’s voice echoed in my mind: “No being alone with her.”

Too fucking late. “Lila.” My voice was low, a warning I hoped she’d heed.

She lifted her chin, gaze unwavering. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

I frowned. “See what?”

“The way people look at you.” She stepped even closer, so that her breath stirred the front of my shirt.

I almost laughed. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m still right.”

“Go home.”

Her voice dropped to a rough whisper. “You walk through that office like nobody can touch you.” Her hand pressed against the polished wood of my desk as she leaned in.

“Julia touches every part of me that matters,” I said, surprising both of us with the soft conviction in my own voice.

Her eyes searched mine, fierce now. “You love her.”

“More than anything.”

“Then she’s lucky.”

“No.” I shook my head, breath catching in my throat. “I am.”

Her hand crept up, fingers grazing the front of my shirt with trembling insistence. I caught her wrist, my palm firm against hers. “Lila.”

It was the last warning. Somewhere in the back of my mind, sober Lila would have understood. Maybe even drunk Lila did. But her gaze slid down to my mouth—hungry, desperate. I saw it coming and had the time to move.