Knowing she’s across the street questioning us might be enough to distract me entirely.
Might be? Who am I kidding? I’m tempted to clear out my schedule and spend the rest of the day convincing her. Erase all doubt from her mind as my hands roam her body, as I press the most vulgar words I can think of into the flush of her skin.
That sounds like a brilliant plan.
Licking the mocha off her lips, Brooke checks the time again, abruptly standing and palming her device. She grabs her nearly empty coffee. “I need to get back before I lose my job. Dylan already has cause to fire me. I accidentally yelled at her earlier.” She looks away, muttering, “I’m yelling at everyone.”
I touch her wrist. She quickly jerks her hand up and adjusts her pony.
A subtle, yet not so subtle move to keep me from touching her? I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just becoming paranoid.
“All right then.” I stand and toss my cup into a nearby rubbish bin. Following her to the door, I hold it open and allow her to walk out ahead of me.
She steps onto the footpath. When she glances in my direction, I gesture down the street.
“I’m just down there. Where did you park? I’ll walk you.”
“Um.” She looks up at me, her eyes careful. Both of her hands holding her cup. “Maybe you don’t?” she quietly suggests.
Maybe I don’t?
I feel my eyebrows raise in surprise, my lips slowly part, though I’m not sure why. I should be expecting this.
She said so in the coffee shop. In so many words, with her stiff, averse body language, she needs me to back off a bit. Give her some time. Her minute. Honestly, it’s the last thing I want to do, but what choice do I have here? I want Brooke to acknowledge on her own what this is for her.
What I am to her.
I need her to say it. I won’t force the words I’ve been waiting for out of Brooke. I won’t push her when she’s obviously struggling more than ever with this right now.
I won’t push her like I did this past weekend. Never again.
I have to rely on what I feel, how bloody sure I am of us. That’s the only way I’m going to be able to step off and leave her be while she takes her minute, which apparently begins right fucking now.
She wants time? I can give her time, if it’ll help move this along.
I’ll give her whatever she wants.
I push a rough hand through my hair. My fingers slide down to my neck where I grip harshly at the skin. “Right. I almost forgot. I can’t do our breakfast tomorrow.”
Our breakfast.
Jesus Christ. I’m bailing on this again. I can’t catch a break with this fucking day.
Brooke studies me, lowering her coffee after taking a sip. Her mouth pulls into a frown.
She looks . . . disappointed?
No. That can’t be. Why would she look disappointed? Taking a bloody minute involves distance. I’m giving her that.
I drop my hand and continue with my lie. This fucking sucks. “Since I canceled classes on Saturday while we were away camping, I decided to add on a few early ones this week to make up for it. I didn’t want to lose any potential clients. It would’ve been bad business not to offer.”
In my mind, I try and remember the names of some of my attendees who requested classes before sunrise. There was at least a handful of them, business women who work long hours in the city and have difficulty getting home at a decent time. Weekends are usually spent with family, so they inquired about something before work. I told them I would consider it.
Maybe I could quickly throw something together for tomorrow so I don’t feel so terrible about making this up.
I rub at my jaw.
Come on, mate. She wants a breather. Look at her. Look how she’s acting. She would’ve canceled on you anyway.
“That’s really early. People are insane wanting to workout instead of sleep.” Brooke looks down the footpath, her gaze possibly following the couple who just strolled past, hand in hand. Making it look simple.
We can have that. Be that.
All too quickly, she lowers her eyes back to her cup.