Page 54

She shifts her grip on the wheel. “Just—worse.”

Fuck, that isn’t an answer.

The queue creeps a car length and I press my thumb into the paperclip wedged between the papers, nerves chewing right through the metal.

“Tell me what to do,” I say, quieter. “If there’s a way to not make it worse—tell me.”

“Keep it professional during the meeting. And stop looking at me like—” She gestures vaguely in the direction of my face. “Like that.”

I huff a resigned breath through my nose. “I don’t know how not to.”

“Try. Please. It started costing us, Noah. I’m only doing what we said we would.”

I count the clicks of the wipers as they sway in front of me, but I can feel the tension rising and rising in my gut.

“Say you don’t want me,” I blurt. “If that’s what this is. Say it and I’ll shut up.”

Her fingers flex once on the leather. She doesn’t say it. She doesn’t say a word.

Right. Okay. So it isn’t that.

The tension swells, thick and electric. Her throat works—one small swallow—and then nothing. No mercy kill. No let’s drop it. Just the fact of her not saying it hanging between us like a live wire.

If you could say it, you would. If you wanted me gone, you’d bury me in one damn sentence.

I can live with rules. I can live with pretending. I’ll stop looking. I’ll take the stairs—everywhere. I’ll time my coffee breaks around yours. I’ll be air if that’s what keeps you feeling fine. I… I want to know… That’s all.

Her knuckles are pale on the wheel, mouth set hard enough that it must be hurting her molars. I want to reach across and cover her hand, stroke her fingers and tell her it’s fine. I want to keep my hands to myself. I want both things at once.

We inch forward until the building materializes out of the weather—glass and steel ghosting in the mist, filling the windshield. She signals, slips across two lanes with clinical precision and slots us into a space.

The engine goes quiet, the wipers freeze mid-arc, and the heater gives one last sputter before it dies.

She rests her forehead to the wheel for a few seconds, eyes squeezing shut. Then she straightens, palm skimming an invisible crease down the front of her coat. “Good to go?”

“Yep. Yep.” I nod quickly, tugging the knot of my tie until it’s in line.

She doesn’t wait for me to gather the rest of my dignity—just pops her door and steps out, coat tugged tight against the wind and rain, bag tucked under her arm. I scramble after her, pulse thundering as the glass doors loom ahead.

She didn’t say she doesn’t want me.

Chapter 20

Sable

Chewing and shoveling food into my mouth at a borderline dangerous pace is apparently the best distraction for unnecessary, annoying-as-fuck thoughts. It gives your hands something to do and keeps your mouth too busy for stupid thoughts to slip out. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself as I jam in another overloaded forkful of cold noodles—my fifth? sixth? Who’s counting?

Hot, sticky soy sauce drips onto my thigh and I smear it away with the sleeve of my hoodie. The couch cushion sags beneath me as I shift again, sliding lower into the abyss. Even the furniture feels over it tonight.

I grab my wine glass and drain the whole thing in one go, slamming it back onto the coffee table.

“I’m not even bothered,” I mutter to the TV, voice flat. “I don’t even care.”

Liar. Yes, you do.

A groan tears out of me as I scrub my mouth with the back of my hand. “Stop it, Sable.”

The fork clatters out of my grip into the carton, tipping it sideways across the table. Soy-slick noodles spill over the rim, staining the glass top. I stare at the mess, blinking slowly. Whatever. I’ll clean it tomorrow. Or I won’t. Who gives a shit?