“Oh, that’s—”
“Perfect,” Christopher says, wrapping his hand around mine, dragging me toward the back of the store.
We’re halfway down the hallway when I tug my hand from his, before I can let myself enjoy the warmth and solidity of his grip. “Stop hauling me around like a bag of bagels.”
He spins, his coat swishing. “Kate, last night—”
“Please,” I whisper, trying and, I think, failing to hide how raw I feel from last night. I haven’t recovered from the whiplash when that tiny spark of hope soared through me as we kissed, then did a nosedive as he told me he regretted it, that he hadn’t meant something that meant a lot to me.
I can’t take that two days in a row.
“You’ve made yourself clear, Christopher. If you say you regret it or you’re sorry or you didn’t mean it one more time, I can promise you if you think you’ve seen a feral Kat, that’s nothing to what’s coming, so drop it.”
He stares at me, jaw tight. Then a rough, slow swallow works down his throat. “All right.”
My shoulders loosen with relief.
“So . . . will you do it?” he asks. “The company’s headshots?”
I stare up at him, still so . . . lost. Who is this man I’m seeing? Where are the biting words? The fast steps away, constantly putting distance between us? I search his eyes. “Why?”
A beat of silence, then he says, his voice quieter, “I told you, I want to fix things between us. At least . . . make them better.”
“Better?” I ask incredulously.
He rakes a hand through his hair. “I know we’ll never get along easily. But I want to find a way to at least get along. While you’re home. When we’re with friends and family. That’s what yesterday was about—the flowers, the food. And hiring you to do these photos. I thought they could be a reset, allow us to move on.”
Move on.
Two little words. Why do they sound so terrible? Why do they make me feel like I’ve been kicked when I’m already curled up on the ground?
Christopher’s eyes search mine, as if he senses how badly I’m spiraling. “Talk to me, Kate. What are you thinking?”
I don’t feel very rational right now. And I don’t know why. Because what Christopher is saying is the very thing I’ve told myself I wanted. For him not to be an asshole to me or pretend like I don’t exist. For him to smile that warm, charming smile that he smiles at everyone else. For him to fold me in like I’m just part of the group and not give me every special kind of hell for simply existing in the same space as him.
So why does it feel like my stomach is a giant knot? Why does the mere idea of Christopher treating me like everyone else make the coffee I gulped ten minutes ago crawl up my throat?
And what am I supposed to do with what he did yesterday? The flowers are explained but not the cryptic note, the unexpected kiss, or the even more unexpected words he said before he left.
As if anyone could not want you.
Like I wasn’t turned around and off-kilter enough from yesterday, he has to come in here and knock me sideways even harder.
But maybe he’s not trying to knock me sideways. Maybe this is the emotional equivalent of those first steps on land when you still have your sea legs. I’m not used to standing still beside Christopher, quiet and peace wrapped around us as we search each other’s eyes. I’m used to sky-high swells and raging storms. Of course this would feel weird. And different.
And, frighteningly, pretty . . . wonderful.
If I can trust it. If he means what he says. If he really does want us to, as he says, “get along.” Praying I hide it well—the thrill of curiosity, the tiniest, most tentative hope, humming through my body, I offer him my hand. “Deal.”
Christopher stares at me warily, his gaze dancing over my face. “Deal? That simple?”
The threat of a smile tugs at my mouth. I’m not the only one who doesn’t know what to make of this new dynamic, then. “I do have a few stipulations. We do it when it suits me, scheduled around my commitments here, but yes. Those are my terms. If you accept, then it’s a deal.”
Gently, he takes my hand. His thumb sweeps across my skin as he holds my eyes. “Then it’s a deal.” A bright, satisfied smile warms his face. “Pleasure doing business with you, Wilmot.”
I wage a battle inside myself to hold my calm expression, not to sigh at the warmth of his hand wrapped around mine. It’s a small concession to strike a deal. It would be too grand a surrender to reveal this little bit of business we’re doing actually feels like pure pleasure.