Best Laid Plans

Too businesslike.

His Adam’s apple bobs, almost painfully, it seems, as he swallows. “Hi, Darla.” His voice is strained.

“How’s Michael? I trust he’s well?” Her tone is chipper but forced.

“Having a good day.”

“That’s wonderful to hear.” She raises her chin and casts a quick glance at me.

It doesn’t take a detective to figure out the mystery.

My stomach churns as the answer clicks into place.

He dated her.

I don’t know when. I don’t know for how long. He never mentioned her, nor would I have expected him to do so. But he clearly did.

“This is Arden,” he says, as if the words are new and strange on his tongue.

She raises her hand in a clinical wave. “Pleasure to meet you.” She gestures down the hall. “I should get back to work. I’m glad everything is going well. Have a great day.”

Darla’s voice is professional as she turns on her heel, but beneath that veneer, I can make out all the undertones. I can hear everything unsaid.

She wanted to ask Gabe for more. He wasn’t interested in more because that’s who he is. He’s the ladies’ man. He’s the charmer. That’s exactly why I asked him for help.

But at this moment, his past cuts me. It makes me want to shut down, protect myself.

Yet, maybe this run-in is exactly what I need to remind me we can’t be more. When he looks at me with fire in his eyes like he did in the elevator, like he did at the Garden of Eden, it’s because he’s remarkably good at sex and remarkably good at charming women.

Not because he’s craving me the same way I’m longing for him. I want him in a way that’s more than physical, in a way that’s dancing scarily close to my heart.

I purse my lips, locking in emotions I don’t want to set free.

I don’t want to be her. I don’t want to feel icy or cold toward him. I don’t want him out of my life.

He means too much to me. I can’t let my burgeoning emotions or my blooming libido lure me into situations that feel too risky, like a kiss. If we kiss, I’ll fall into trouble. I’ll lose control of my heart.

We continue out, and when we reach the parking lot, he clears his throat. “I’m sorry about that. I went out with her.”

The admission of what I knew to be true still hurts. I try to shrug it off. “It’s no big deal.”

“It was only once.”

The hurt goes deeper, because it’s like he’s justifying his one-and-done ways for my sake. “Gabe, it’s fine.” I rustle in my bag for my sunglasses because it’s bright and because I need to hide my eyes from him.

“I didn’t feel anything for her,” he adds, and it’s too much. Too much to know he can connect with a woman without feeling a thing.

I hold up a hand. “There’s no need to justify anything to me.”

He grabs my wrist—like he did in the elevator but without desire, only determination. “I’m not justifying it.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Jesus Christ, I’m explaining why things were weird. Would you just let me?”

“They weren’t weird, and you don’t owe me an explanation. I didn’t ask for your help in the bedroom because I thought you were innocent. I asked for help because you have lots of experience.”

His jaw clenches, ticking. “That’s not the point, Arden. I didn’t have sex with her. We didn’t do anything.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say again, but my voice is tight, stretched thin as I force out untrue words. It does matter. Everything matters. If I let this longing between us spiral into uncharted waters, I’ll be the next one he passes on the street and shares an awkward introduction with. The next woman who’s professional and polite with him.

“Yes. It. Does.” He lets go of my wrist and drags a hand through his hair. “Will you just listen to me?”

I exhale, my throat catching, and I nod. The least I can do is give him the floor.

He holds up his index finger. “We went on one date. Nothing happened. She wanted to go out again. And I didn’t. I told her as much. I was up-front and clear. I didn’t lead her on about my intentions. And I didn’t screw her and ditch her. I’m sorry she was kind of cold.”

“It’s okay. I’d probably feel the same way she did,” I say, letting down my guard, choosing honesty.

“I don’t want you to feel like that.”

How do you want me to feel? I’m dying to ask. How do you feel? Because something changed in the elevator. Something shifted between us. And I don’t know what it is or how to go forward. But if this brief experiment with him has taught me anything, it’s that speaking my mind matters. “I want to be friends with you. I don’t want to be the woman who gives you a cold look because you didn’t want to go out again. And I’m sorry,” I say, choking out an apology.

“For what?”

“For the ‘experience’ comment. It was snide and shitty.”

He laughs. “It’s okay. You called a spade a spade.”

I shake my head. “It was rude.”

“I didn’t feel slut-shamed, for what it’s worth.”

“Good. I don’t believe in slut-shaming.”

“Then we practice the same religion. There should be no such thing as slut-shaming. Sex is good. Sex is a wonderful thing. Let’s stop arguing.”

I nod, swallowing the dumb lump in my throat. “I hate fighting.”

He reaches for me, wraps his arms around my shoulders, and tugs me close. “Then let’s not fight.”

I rest my head against his shoulder, savoring the strength of his arms, the warmth of his touch. But even so, I’m still thinking about how his arms felt in the elevator. How his hands pinned my wrists. How his body moved against mine, hard and aroused.

And I’m thinking, too, about how I feel when I’m with him. How I felt walking down that hallway with him to see his pops, like I was special to Gabe. How I felt in the suite when the three of us talked, and then when I read. I swear Gabe looked at me like he was seeing new things in me.

I think I’m seeing new things in him too.

That’s so damn dangerous.

But even after seeing what happens to women who want more of Gabe than he can give, I still long for both parts of him.