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Now you have my personal cell.
Me:
In that case, yes, I’m safe in my apartment.
Him:
Is it too late to apologize for what happened tonight?
Me:
Which part?
Him:
All of it.
My grip on the phone tightens. His willingness to take the blame wraps around my ribs in the most uncomfortable way.
Me:
Even your offer to follow me home?
Him:
Especially that. I should’ve driven you.
Me:
And break your professional boundaries?
Him:
They’re hanging by a thread. The polite thing would’ve been to drive you.
The polite thing. Everything about thisman is tight control and restraint, and now he's telling me his boundaries are fraying? Oh god.
Me:
Can we talk instead of texting?
The phone rings immediately.
“Hi,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around breathless.
“You sound tired.” His voice is different on the phone. Lower. More intimate. Like he's right beside me.
“Long day.”
“How's the wine?”
I glance at my glass, startled. “How did you?—”
“You always mention wine on difficult days. Bad day, wine. Good day, tea.”
“You've been cataloging my beverage choices?”
“I've been cataloging everything about you.” The admission hangs between us. “That's the problem.”