Page 91 of The Difference Between

Then he kissed me.

Right after I almost told him why we were there because I don’t want to keep secrets from him.

Because—oh fuck—I like him.

“What was that?” I ask, flustered. “That kiss. That was—what was that?”

“Me saving our asses,” he says from the passenger seat. Unbothered. Like he didn’t just watch me bleed vulnerability before kissing me like sex. “And making sure you have a reason to keep your promise.”

I shove the key in the ignition, trying to think through the influx of adrenaline and hormones. I need to get far, far away from this man. “Promise?”

He grins. “The date you begged me to take you on.”

Damn him.

Twenty-Five

It’s not the meditating I have an issue with—I’ve read enough articles on high-performing CEOs doing it to keep their sanity to knock it—it’s the fact that I suck at it.

“Have you ever taken a deep breath?” Banyan’s voice is just as annoying today as it was yesterday. “Or sat still?”

My eyes fly open to glare at him. “I am taking deep breaths.” I inhale and exhale with sound for emphasis. “Maybe us sitting cross-legged like a bunch of kindergarteners between grapevines isn’t as helpful as you think.” My brows lift. “Or, just maybe, us crazy capitalists are onto something with actually working and not spending our time chasing vibes.”

“Hey, hey, hey.” He waves his white-flag hands. “Don’t bring The Man into this. Nobody needs his chokehold and rules. I’m just saying, Big Mama knows when you’re fighting her.”

My palms, currently open toward the sky in order to receive energy, clench into tight fists. “Big Mama?”

“Mama Nature.” He twirls a finger through the air. “All knowing. Responsible for it all.” He drops his head back and breathes deep—sniffs, really—then looks at me as he releases a long “Mamaaaaa. What isn’t the Fire Lady telling us?”

My gaze drifts over Banyan’s shoulder, down the row of grapes, and to the metal building in the distance; the only vehicle parked there is Banyan’s van. I’m not thinking about the fit of two bodies in a closet or the way I was whispered off a ledge of panic or how a brutish beard can feel like heaven when scraped against skin. “Nothing.”

“Lie all you want,” Banyan says, “but the body keeps the score. Can’t hold on to everything forever.” He squints. “Did something happen? We were making progress last week and now—” His face twists. “This.”

“No,” I snap.

Sure, I ended last week more relaxed than I’ve been in years. Maybe a decade. And then Gavin showed up and held me and kissed me in a way I very much liked, and it has derailed me for days. I’m on edge. I can’t think. At night I lie in bed and stare at Joshua Jackson’s face and mutter about what a mess this is then imagine what it would have been like if we had three more hours in that closet.

And so, I’m back to avoiding Gavin and ignoring his bad-joke texts. Even the one that came through just an hour ago reminding me of our pending date.

I’m doing everything right with my eating and exercise; my uterus can overlook my inability to relax.

“Your shirt is buttoned,” I snip at Banyan. “I’d say that counts for more progress than you getting me to sit here and play Zen with you.”

“Play Zen.” He gives me a lazy smile. “I like that.”

I do not.

He taught me about the grapes last week in exchange for me going barefoot. This week he vowed to keep his entire shirt buttoned and teach me the tasting menu if I meditate.

“I’m stressed just standing next to you,” he told me with a shiver yesterday. “You might need to be saged, little lady.”

Now here we are, sitting directly in front of each other, cross-legged on Mexican blankets between the trellised rows.

“How do you feel about chanting?” he asks.

“How the fuck do you think I feel about chanting?”

“Yikes.” His eyes widen. “You need a long rub of a Buddha’s belly.” He shakes a finger at me. “That’s the kind of energy I’m talking about. What is that? That’s negative. Harsh.” He cringes at how harsh this is. “You feel any of that coming off me?” He’s as close to outraged as he gets. “No. And are you even thinking of the vines?” He pauses, brows so high they nearly get swallowed by his bandana. He looks at the grapes. “Shake her off, ladies. Harvest is coming.” Next week, he’s right. To me: “Close your eyes.”