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Blaire turns her head toward me.

“You all right?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. Then she looks at me more closely.

“Are you?”

I let out a quiet breath that almost becomes a laugh.

“I’m fine.”

Her mouth curves.

The answer is technically true.

What I do not say is that release has accomplished almost nothing. I expected the wanting to ease once I finally had her, but instead I am sitting beside her thinking about how soon I can touch her again.

I turn slightly toward her.

“When can I see you again?”

Blaire raises one eyebrow. “You see me almost every day.”

“You know what I mean.”

The amusement fades from her expression.

I hold her gaze. “Not for work.”

She looks away for only a moment before turning back to me.

“Tomorrow night,” she says.

Chapter Eight

Blaire

By the end of the next two weeks, Ross has worked himself into the shape of my days so thoroughly that I stop noticing when it happens.

Sometimes it is coffee. The first time, he leaves a cup beside my elbow while Margaret is reviewing condition notes with Amelia at the far end of the table.

“Flat white,” Ross says quietly. “No sugar.”

I look up at him. “You remembered.”

His expression barely changes.

“You mentioned it.”

“Once.”

“That was apparently enough.”

Before I can answer, Margaret turns toward us with a question about a shipping record, and Ross steps back as though he came downstairs for nothing more than an update. Five minutes later, he is discussing insurance documentation with her in the same measured tone he uses with everyone else.

My coffee remains beside my hand.

Other days, it is a message.