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The office phone rings.

The sharp sound snaps the thought cleanly in half. I stare at the phone for a second before picking it up.

“Kensington.”

As the voice on the other end begins talking, I look down at the report still open in front of me and force myself back into the day. For the first time in years, work is not enough to drown out what I want.

***

The next afternoon, I am back at the estate office reviewing a set of insurance schedules when there is a knock at the door. I look up from the figures in front of me and call, “Come in.”

Blaire steps inside carrying a folder against her chest, and for a moment, neither of us says anything. Her hair is pinned up today, with a few loose strands near her face, and she is wearing a cream blouse tucked into a fitted dark skirt that falls to her knees. A pair of slim reading glasses sits low on her nose, and I hate how quickly I notice every detail.

“Margaret said you needed the revised valuation packet,” she says, keeping her tone perfectly professional.

“I thought Amelia was handling that,” I reply.

“She’s out today,” Blaire says.

“Margaret asked me to bring it over.”

“Of course,” I say.

She crosses the room and places the folder on my desk. Her perfume reaches me before she steps back, that same clean floral scent I have spent the better part of a week trying not to remember. I lower my attention to the file because looking at her for too long feels like asking for trouble.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” she replies.

The silence that follows is almost absurd. I open the folder and study the first page, although I am far more aware of Blaire standing on the other side of the desk than anything printed in front of me.

“The insurance values were updated?” I ask.

“Yes,” she replies.

“The two pieces from the east corridor were reappraised this morning. The supporting notes are behind the summary sheet.”

I turn the page and ask, “Everything else unchanged?”

“For now,” she says.

I nod once. “Good.”

Blaire reaches forward and adjusts the folder even though it is already aligned. I notice the movement because I am noticing everything. Neither of us looks directly at the other for more than a second at a time, and the excessive politeness between us is worse than any argument we have had since she arrived.

I know exactly how she feels against me now. I know the way her body responds when I pull her closer and how quickly that careful composure disappears when she stops fighting what she wants. Somehow, we are standing here discussing insurance values as if none of that exists.

Blaire clears her throat and asks, “Was there anything else?”

I look up, and her eyes meet mine. The memory between us is immediate, but neither of us gives it a name.

“No,” I say. “That’s all.”

“All right,” she replies.

She turns toward the door, and my attention follows the line of her back before I can stop it. The fitted skirt traces the curve of her hips as she crosses the room, and I feel my jaw tighten when she reaches for the handle.

“Blaire,” I say.