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Keep it simple.

But I should wait until the contract was complete and the work finished before I invited Joss on a date. That was more professional, though us having sex was amateur hour. How was I supposed to wait until then? I’d have to immerse myself in work, so I buckled down.

One piece of expensive rare silk was wending its way to a client, and I was determined it would not be lost or stolen. I had a photo of the fabric in a digital sticky note on the computer, and I marveled at the exquisite craftsmanship that created it. That was what my division was all about. Beautiful, rare pieces created with skills passed down for generations.

But every few minutes, Joss crept into my head. I put on my noise-canceling headphones and told him to keep out.

I turned the music up louder.

12

JOSS

The Redtail Global job was almost done. It should’ve felt like a triumph, something I could be proud of, a professional milestone. But instead, I sat at my desk with a cooling cup of coffee in front of me. I didn’t even want it, but it was Harold’s turn this week, and I didn’t have the heart to turn it down.

I didn’t want the contract to be finished, to be in the office away from Garner, or to make small talk with my business partner, but here I was. What I wanted, what I couldn’t stop thinking about, was getting going to Redtail. Not for the project. No. To see Garner.

I wanted to see him. Touch him. Be near him.

We hadn’t defined what we were—if we were anything at all. Friends with benefits at best. Coworkers with benefits, maybe. Or possibly not even that. Maybe we were just people who’d gotten caught up in a moment—fine, several moments, and were pretending it hadn’t meant more than it did. A fling, that was all it was—all it could be. If he wanted more, he’d have said so, right?

Or was he like me, unsure what to say. He’d been nothing but wonderful to me. At no point in time did I ever feel used or unwanted. In the past, this would’ve been the ideal situation. But now? Now, I wanted more. I wanted everything.

Just because he hadn’t said it didn’t mean I couldn’t. Right?

So why hadn’t I?

Once again, it came back to fear. That sick, choking fear that if I put myself out there—if I told him what I felt—he wouldn’t feel the same. And I wasn’t sure I could survive that. He owned a piece of my heart.

No. Not a piece. All of it. I was officially screwed.

“You look awful.” Harold didn’t say it like an insult. It was more like he was worried, and I appreciated that. Really, I did. But still… it stung.

“Sorry.” I sighed, sucked in a deep breath, closed my eyes, and tried to find the words. “I just… I’m off.” It went far deeper than that, but it was a start.

“Joss, we’ve been friends for years. You can tell me anything.” And with anyone else, I’d have taken that as someone being polite, offering because it was the right thing to do. But with Harold, he meant it. He never made an offer he didn’t want to willingly fulfill. He was a nice guy and would rarely say no in the time of need, but offers? Those were precious.

“Yeah. It’s just… Redtail’s contract is nearly fulfilled.” I stared at the rim of my cup. People called coffee morning magic; was it too much for it to magically give me all the answers that I needed? “And… and I think… I mean, I know… I’m in love with Garner.”

Harold didn’t say a word, watching my face, patiently. He knew me well enough to know there was more… so much more.

“I’m in love with Garner, and he’s not in love with me. And I know this is wrong, but I’ve been sleeping with him since the trip.” I spoke as fast as my lips would go, afraid that I’d chicken out along the way.

I braced for his disapproval, for the well-meaning-friend face that would try not to judge me but still would because how could he not. But when I looked up, Harold was grinning. Really grinning, the kind of smile that reached all the way to his eyes.

“I don’t get why you’re looking at me like that.” It was making me kind of nervous.

“Because,” he said, shrugging, “he does like you like that. I knew it!”

“What are you talking about?” It was not riddle time.

“Think about it. What evidence do you have that he doesn’t love you?”

“You can’t prove things don’t exist, only that things do.” I refused to get my hopes too far up. It would only make it harder.

“What a crock, Joss. You can’t tell me there haven’t been moments—little things he’s said to you—that made your stomach flip.”

I started to protest, but I couldn’t. He was right. But also, was he or was I about to tread into the dangerous village of wishful thinking.