Page 43 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
It came out as a question. That hadn’t been intentional.
Her eyes narrowed, and the temperature in the room dropped approximately five degrees. “I just … when I got here … you didn’t even greet me. You just—” She gestured vaguely with one hand. “Started in on me. Criticizing me.”
“Started in on you?” I replayed our interaction. “I commented you arrived early.”
“The way you said it?—”
“Delaney.” I tried to keep my voice level, even though pressure was building behind my sternum, hot and unwelcome. The old itch of not being understood—familiar, childhood-worn—scratched beneath my skin. “I’m not criticizing you. I wasstating a fact. You were here early. So was I. That’s—that’s just data.”
Except it hadn’t been just data, had it? There’d been a flutter—small, unbidden—when I’d seen her car already in the parking lot. Uncomfortably close to pleasure, if I was being precise about it. The thought that she’d cared enough to come early, too.
What was wrong with me? Delaney hated me. Coming early hadn’t been about wanting to spend time with me. I suspected a whole other reason entirely.
She had the decency to look slightly chastised, but it vanished quickly. Her shoulders remained tense. Her scowl froze in place.
And I wanted to fix it. The tension. The way she watched me as though I was a problem to be solved rather than a person to work with.
More than anything, I wanted warmth and patience from her. Softness, maybe, the way I’d seen her with her friends.
Which was ridiculous. And irrelevant.
“Right,” she said finally, though her tone suggested she didn’t believe me. “So … where should we go?”
“There’s a back room the staff uses for breaks.” I gestured toward the hallway. “It should be quiet enough for us to work without interruption.”
My hand landed on her lower back instinctively as I guided her forward.
I heard her inhale—soft, quick, almost a gasp as heat shot up my arm. The warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her sweatshirt seemed to brand itself into my palm. Every nerve ending in my hand lit up like a circuit board, sending signals to my brain I didn’t know how to process.
I dropped my hand immediately, curling my fingers into a fist at my side as if I could contain the sensation. To make it stop spreading up my arm, traveling across my chest, and prevent it from settling somewhere dangerous and warm, low in my gut.
What the hell was that?
And worse—infinitely worse—why did I want to do it again?
I forced my attention to the matter at hand. We had work to do. Important work. Structured work. Work that didn’t involve noticing how the curve of her lower back fit perfectly against my palm, or how warm her skin had felt through the fabric, or the way my hand still tingled like I’d touched something electric.
Focus, Kingsley. You’re here for the shelter. For the grant. Not to?—
Not to whateverthiswas.
We walked into the break room. It had a second-hand table scarred with years of coffee rings and pen marks, a few mismatched chairs that wobbled, and a refrigerator and a microwave that both looked to be from the last century. The appliance hummed ominously. The fluorescent lighting buzzed faintly overhead, flickering in a way that made my right eye twitch. I’d need to mention that to Theo. Inconsistent lighting was a sensory nightmare.
I pulled out a chair for her.
“What are you doing?” Suspicion laced each word.
I blinked. “This seat’s for you.” Was that not obvious? My parents had always told me it was polite to pull a chair out for a lady. The right thing to do, to show respect. And while I struggled with reading social cues at times, this is one I’d memorized. This one I knew by heart.
Her eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise, and her expression softened in a way that made my chest ache. “Oh. Um … Thank you.”
She sat, and I caught the faintest hint of that lavender scent again, and I had to resist the completely inappropriate urge to lean closer.
I took the chair across from her, and pulled out a printed version of the protocol I had messaged her earlier. My hand wassteady as I set it on the table. Good. At least some part of me was maintaining the illusion of competence.
She grabbed the papers without a word, and her eyes scanned the first page. Her brow furrowed as her lips pressed together again.
Here we go.
