Page 47 of The Ho-Ho Hook-Up
“It's her, isn't it?” Reed had said quietly. “The nanny. She's the one from that night.”
I'd told them everything. The bar, the note, the second day together, the interview, the choice I'd made.
“You're torturing yourself,” Jace had said bluntly. “And probably torturing her too.”
“What else can I do?” I'd demanded. “Risk Hollie's stability for something that might not work out?”
“Or risk losing something that could be fucking amazing because you're too scared to try,” Reed had countered.
But they don't understand. They don't have a four-year-old depending on them to make the right choices. They don't know what it's like to see your daughter's face light up with pure joy because someone finally cares about her the way Charity never did.
I can't fuck this up.
Even if keeping my distance from Rory is slowly killing me.
Even if I lie awake at night remembering the weight of her in my arms, the sound of my name on her lips, the way she'd looked at me at Somerset House like I was something worth believing in.
A soft knock interrupts my spiral.
“Come in.”
The door opens, and Rory steps inside, tablet in hand. She's wearing jeans and a cream jumper, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looks tired, I realise with a sharp pang of guilt. There are faint shadows under her eyes that weren't there two months ago.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I wanted to review Hollie's schedule for next week. She has her check-up on Tuesday, and there's the nursery party on Thursday.”
“Right. I'll take her to the appointment.”
She makes a note, not meeting my eyes. “And I was planning to make biscuits with her on Wednesday evening for the party. Is that okay?”
“That's fine.”
Another note. Another careful avoidance of direct eye contact.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we're not saying. With every conversation we're not having, every touch we're not sharing, every possibility we're not exploring.
“Is there anything else you need?” she asks, finally looking up.
Yes, I want to say. I need you to know that not a day goes by that I don't regret this. That keeping you at arm's length is torture but losing you entirely would be worse. That I'm a coward who chose the safe option and I hate myself for it.
“No,” I say instead. “That's all. Thank you, Rory.”
Something flickers in her expression—hurt, maybe, or resignation—before she schools her features back to neutral.
“Goodnight, Cole.”
“Goodnight.”
She closes the door behind her, and I drain the rest of my whisky in one burning swallow.
Two months of this.
Two months of watching her from a distance while pretending I don't feel like I'm slowly bleeding out.
And I have no idea how much longer I can last before something breaks.
BeforeIbreak.
