Page 25 of Under Locke & Key

That’s her loss .

Rachel turning my phrase against me feels like a blow to my ribs and I have to swallow the emotion welling.

She’s just reciprocating. Logically, I know she wouldn’t be saying this if I hadn’t uttered something similar but the wounded part of me wants to believe it, believe her and that she means it.

“Sounds like they’ve done a number on us, huh?” Her statement is dry, barely even humorous, but it’s enough to pull a chuckle from me.

“So, you’ve had a little more experience with this than I have. Does it get better? Do we ever get to a point where we stop searching for our worth in others?” I look over at her again, finding it harder and harder to avoid it as every day goes by.

What if I miss a smile? What if the sun catches on her hair and lights it up with gold and I don’t see it?

“I’ll tell you if I find out and you do the same if you get there before I do, deal?” she asks. Our jokes are barely that but after the heaviness of our confessions it’s necessary. Drowning in her big, dark eyes, I lick my dry lips before I answer.

“Promise.”

The rest of the drive is quiet. I contemplate this evening and I’m sure she’s doing the same.

Every moment, from Logan’s whispered, “She’s stunning” and Gabrielle poking him in the ribs for his lack of subtlety, to the scent of her hair as we looked over the will together in the escape room.

Each brush of her arm against mine at dinner set my nerve endings on fire and the way her face had fallen during dinner— I acknowledge and quickly set aside the way seeing her look that sad made something inside of me clench.

It’s joined by the niggling sense of watching her interact with ángel, the easy intimacy between them, and despite her just calling him her best friend I can’t help but wonder if there’s more there.

My inner voice that sounds suspiciously jealous pipes up that ángel's statement upset her and I’m the one smoothing it over.

He might have gotten to hug her but I get to see her almost daily.

Because you’re her boss and if you hit on her you’ll be no better than the asshole she left D.C. to get away from .

Have I already overstepped? I can’t help the urge to be near her.

Somehow I live in those moments with her hand in mine, that touch intoxicating even if it’s just for a second, even if it’s just under the guise of helping her.

She’s everywhere. Rachel Mackey is a thunderstorm and I am cracked earth begging to be quenched by her.

I park outside her building, step around the car to get the door for her, all so I can have her soft hand curl around mine. This time I take it a step further. I walk her to the robin’s egg blue wood leading up to her apartment and she pauses with her hand on the knob.

Turning those large dark eyes on me, I swallow, wishing I was better at this.

If I were anyone else I’d know what to say, how close to stand, when to push or pull.

I’ve never been good at gauging the mood or picking up on context clues.

Stephanie and her departure, the one that surprised me but felt like an inevitability for her, is only proof of how much I miss.

I’ve never been at ease in this kind of scenario in my whole life.

Somehow, Rachel doesn’t make me feel . . . off. Tumbled around and spit out, and aching for the equilibrium of her touch, but never wrong. Every moment with her feels strangely right and I’m terrified to jeopardize it.

“I had a lovely time meeting your friends,” she says, barely above a whisper, struggling to fit her key into the slot.

Downtown is quiet, streetlights leaving golden pools spilling from them every couple of yards and perhaps it's the safety of the night around us, bathing us in darkness like a blanket of quiet words and loud longing, but I make my move.

Stepping closer so that I can feel her back pressed against my front, barely, but enough to steal the breath from my lungs.

Reaching over, I cover her hand with mine and help her guide the metal home.

Trailing my fingertips down the back of her hand, I ghost them over her forearm before taking a step back to clear my mind from the wayward thoughts bursting forth.

She smells like spice, botanicals with a bite. It’s subtle, the escape room dulling some of it, but now with the early summer breeze and the proximity of her body to mine, her scent floods my brain and I want nothing more than to drown in her.

“So did I,” I respond after too long. I know it’s been too long because I have to swallow and moisten my lips to speak, parched.

“Bryce . . .” Something hangs suspended in the way she says my name—plaintive and breathless, and something else—something I want to reach out for and hold with both hands, but I could have this wrong.

I could have all of this wrong and then I’ll make a mess of it for both her and me. There’s no HR department, no protection. Just my mom’s guidance and a contract I got from Google, and this sick pang in my stomach wishing I’d met her under any circumstances but these.

“Rachel?”

She cants backwards, her fingers gripping the keys now freed from the lock, and she’s a hair’s breadth from my body.

I’m torn. Part of me waits, begging her to make the first move so that I can’t be responsible for the blow up to come.

The other part, the one that’s been growing louder and louder since Stephanie called me meek, wants to prove the opposite, to inhabit the confidence I never felt comfortable enough to step into.

It’s the second part that takes over, just for a moment.

My hands wrap around her biceps, goosebumps rising on her skin at the touch.

She shivers, though I doubt it’s from the cold and I can only hope I’m reading this right.

Weeks of glances, and the barest of touches, if she feels even a quarter of what I do—if she wants this even an iota as much as me—it might be worth risking.

Stepping forward, solid against her, I breathe her in and whisper my false confidence into her hair.

“I need you to be sure. I can’t read you or this. I don’t want to make a mess of things or misunderstand. I need words.” My voice is deeper and riddled with gravel, forced through my nerves and the words leave me at her mercy.

Her head falls back against me, her breath hot against my collar, and she shivers in response.

Her hand comes up to cover mine where it rests on her arm.

I wait a beat, for her to say something, anything.

A car rushing by us pulls me out of the cocoon of desire sweeping through me.

Now isn’t the time. I need to process my feelings and what they mean for both of us—if there were to be an us.

I have to be prepared for whatever outcome, whichever path we go down . . . together or separately.

Planting a kiss against her temple, I whisper against her skin. “Goodnight, Rachel.”

Her touch slips from my hand and I walk away without a backward glance, my mind full of half-formed images of her and me, and everything I’d do with her if she said the words.

You’re her boss. She’s off limits. You’re trying not to be like every other person who treated her like everything other than her own person. You don’t get to decide to want her and then expect her to welcome your attention. You’re her boss. She’s off limits.

But what if she wasn’t? What if Rachel Mackey said the word and I followed her up those stairs and past every one of my insecurities? What if I was brave enough?

Brave enough to get hurt again?

My brain is bound and determined to ruin it for me, self doubt creeping in and reminding me of the suckerpunch that was my last relationship.

Though, Rachel and I don’t necessarily need to have a relationship. I could be casual. I can do casual, if that’s what she wants.

Can you? Mr. Monogamous Dawson who’s only been with two women, one of whom was his wife. You’re sure you can do casual?

If that’s the only way I can get an invitation to cross this painful line drawn in the sand, the one protecting us both, I’ll take what I can get. Even though I’m sure Rachel Mackey would casually wreck me if I gave her the chance. All I can do is hope, and wait.

* * *

There’s a certain painful beauty in it being a Saturday night.

I leave her at her doorstep and then I have two full days to overthink every second because of her work schedule.

I could call or text. But my bravery left when I did and I can’t help feeling like I’ve messed this up before it even started.

I make up for it by working myself into exhaustion at the theater, starting with the process of ridding the space of its musty and old interiors.

Sweat dripping, and making me absolutely miserable, I head out to the hardware store multiple times over Sunday and Monday to find the right way to unbolt the seats from the floor.

On Tuesday morning, earlier than I’d usually be communicating with Rachel about the day ahead, I find a text message from her, sent at a ridiculous time last night.

Rachel

Hey, I’m not feeling too hot. Is it okay if I work on some actual coding and ideas today and I can present them more formally once I’m done?

No worries.

I’m starting with clearing the space before it’s usable and it’s been a mess of physical labor. Knowing that the “after” is being taken care of is a huge relief.

Take the week to work on it and we can evaluate together after that?

Perfect. I’ll keep you updated!

Same! Have a good week

You too!

Oh god, I sent an emoji. I’ve never been the kind of person to do that but I’m petrified that she’ll misconstrue my tone.

It’s always my fear that I’m either not understanding the underlying mood to an encounter or sure I'm interpreting people correctly, or I’m worried I'm not coming across correctly.

Most of the time though I feel totally oblivious and worried I'm missing something crucial.