“A makeout is . . .” She hesitates. “Horizontal.”
She looks very satisfied about coming up with this technicality. “Not length or intensity? Interesting. Because I was about two seconds from picking you up, setting you on my counter, wrapping your legs around me, and seeing what I could make happen without having a crick in my neck because you’re short.”
She’s staring at me, mouth slightly parted, like she can’t believe I just went there. I take another bite of my omelet, unbothered, because I only told her the truth.
“So that wouldn’t have been a makeout,” I say, like I’ve been considering it the whole time I’ve been chewing. In a way, I have. But mainly because I’ve been imagining that missed opportunity since Thursday night.
“You raise a good point.” She’s staring at my mouth like she’s considering a reenactment to test my definition, but then she gives herself a small shake. “I mean it’s a pointless point. It was a bad idea.”
To be good in corporate law, it takes predatory instincts. I let those loose in the office and keep them out of my personal life. But those instincts are genetically coded, and I feel something old and primitive spilling into my veins, the instinct of the hunt. She’s looking for escape, and I can’t let her find it.
“It wasn’t an idea,” I tell her. “There was no thinking. Only reflex. The kind that’s programmed into your DNA when two compatible people strip out the BS and just do what feels natural.”
A red stain is spreading up her neck, climbing toward her cheeks, but she’s determined to fight me on this. “That’s the thing, Josh. We’re not compatible. We’re so incompatible that it’s funny.”
“What’s funny is you trying to wave this all off, like it’s easy to make this kind of attraction disappear.” I lean forward and lock eyes with her, food and everything else forgotten. “If you can say you don’t feel it too, I’ll drop it. Tell me honestly that it’s my imagination.”
She holds my gaze for a few seconds before her eyes fall to her plate. But she doesn’t disagree.
“Eat your omelet,” I say. “I’ll let this go. For now. But you owe me an explanation. You’re going to have to make a case for this incompatibility you’re claiming. Do you have a show tonight?”
She gives me a slow nod. I can’t tell if her silence is because she’s mad or tongue-tied. Or maybe I gave her something to think about.
I give a single nod back. “Okay. I’ll be on the balcony.” Then I tuck into my omelet like our incredibly loaded conversation never happened.
She puts her fork down instead of taking another bite. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“I didn’t mean literally.”
“No, I don’t owe you anything. Literally or figuratively. That’s the problem, Josh. I made it clear on our only real date that I’m not interested. I didn’t owe you an explanation then and I don’t owe you one now. But ‘no’ doesn’t compute for you.”
“Wait,youcame to my place.Youknocked onmykitchen door. If that isn’t yes, then what is?”
“It was yes at that moment. Yes can always be revoked.” She stands and pushes her plate back. “I’m not hungry. I didn’t ask you to come here and make breakfast. I’m not obligated to eat it because you decided to do it. I don’t have to share my story because you shared yours. You’ve decided you want time with me, and when charm failed, you used money and your idiotic fake dating excuse to buy my time. I should have said no then. That’s on me. But I’ve been second-guessing myself ever since. And you keep pushing.”
Her words start like a shock of cold water, but they become icicles, stabbing at me, and I fight the instinct to hunch my shoulders and shelter. I listen with a blank face until she’s done.
“Everyone does their own dishes around here,” she says. “Thanks for the breakfast I didn’t ask for, but I’ve reached my limit on bribes I’ll take. Clean your mess before you go, please.”
Sharp, sharp icicles. I don’t even know what to say, and the only words that come out of my mouth are “but Madi?”
“I’ll make her one later.” She walks into the house without looking back. I turn to watch her grab her purse from beside the front door and walk out, the door almost slamming behind her.
I turn and look down at the ruins of breakfast. Steam still rises from her barely eaten omelet like a smoking gun.
What just happened?
Chapter Nineteen
Josh
Icleanup,whichI would have done anyway, scraping two wasted omelets into the trash can.
Sami’s accusations burn in my mind, and I handle it the way I always do these days: I go into the office and bury it beneath a case file thick enough to numb the sting. I work through lunch, not coming out of my office, not bothering to keep tabs on which other associates are here today to challenge me in working the most billable hours.
I stay until dinner time, at which point I pack up, hit up Torchy’s for some takeout, and head home. To work some more. Redemption takes more than overtime. This is a double-time commitment.
I’m barely in my door before there’s a knock. Maybe Sami to apologize before she heads out for her show? I pull it open, already frowning at the thought of seeing her, of all the things I didn’t say in the shock of her accusations, but it’s Ruby standing on my doorstep. My scowl fades to surprise.
