Page 20 of The Clinch
Not by getting closer.
By holding the line. By keeping this straightforward. By making sure that when this ends, she leaves with her future intact, and I keep mine.
I don’t take what isn’t offered.
I repeat it once in my head, the way I repeat a combination. Not touching her isn’t a rule Jessica made. It’s mine.
The water keeps running.
My body doesn’t relax.
She’s in my apartment, down the hall.
Six weeks has never felt like a long time until now.
6
FIRST ROUND (LIZ)
Iwake to silence. Heavy, complete silence, the kind that tells you, you slept deeper than you intended.
I blink up at the ceiling. Pale gray. Minimalist. Not my apartment. I come up too fast, my brain still half a step behind.
Leo’s place. Brooklyn.
Right.
I inhale to a count of four, exhale for four more, annoyed with myself for how much this matters.
I slept. I slept deeply. In a fighter’s apartment.
My therapist would have a field day with that.
I push a hand through my hair—a tangled disaster zone I’ll need industrial equipment to fix later—and take in the room again. Spare. Masculine. Everything squared off and in its place.
No clutter. No chaos buzzing under the surface.
Very Leo.
My gaze drifts to the closed door, and I pause to listen. Not because I expect danger but because old wiring doesn’t care about logic. It fires when it wants.
I swing my legs out of bed. The floor is cool under my feet, my body still loose from deep sleep. That annoys me even more.
The window pulls me toward it, the Brooklyn Bridge cutting through the morning haze. Sunlight spills in across my forearm, and for a moment I let myself breathe.
Then the scent hits me.
Coffee. Rich. Dark. Fresh.
Of course he’s awake. Of course he’s already up and doing things. Of course he’s probably half-dressed and infuriatingly attractive while doing absolutely nothing.
It’s not fear, more of an inconvenient awareness that complicates my life.
This is bad.
He’s the exact kind of entanglement I rebuilt my life to sidestep. And somehow I’m in his kitchen.
I crack the door open and step into the living room. The space is washed in bright morning light, warm and soft against glass and steel. Brooklyn hums somewhere in the distance. It should feel ordinary. It doesn’t.
