Page 109 of Never After Us
It feels like he’s touching me without moving.
A low awareness rolls through me—deep in my stomach, low in my spine—answering him before I can hide it.My knees go soft.My pulse stumbles.And I swear his eyes darken just a fraction, as if he feels every bit of it just like I do.
For a heartbeat, there’s only us.The distance between our mouths.The almost of it.
Then—the elevator doors slide open with a rush of cool air, breaking whatever held us suspended.We step out at the same time like two people pretending we weren’t seconds away from crossing a line we’re both terrified to name.
“We need to talk,” Alec mutters as we step out of the building.His voice is still rough, like it’s recovering from the elevator—or maybe from the restraint it took not to kiss me in it.
“I don’t think we do,” I say too fast, pasting on a smile as we pass Martin, who nods like this is just any other Tuesday.
It’s not.
I’m still trying to figure out if I hallucinated that almost-kiss or if my hormones are so dangerously deprived that proximity now counts as foreplay.My brain’s short-circuiting like a faulty cassette deck, looping the same question: What if I had kissed him?What if he had kissed me?
Absolutely not.No.Nope.
No woman in my position—widow, single mother, emotionally glued together with caffeine, chocolate, and denial—should even be considering catching feelings for someone like Alec Horvath.A celebrity, no less.A man with brooding eyes, a tragic past, and a voice that makes parts of me I thought were dormant sit up and beg.
It’s not just reckless.It’s stupid.
I am not that woman.
I am the woman who organizes her trauma into manageable bullet points.The woman who makes laminated lists and pretends she doesn’t cry in bathroom stalls.The woman who lies to everyone with a smile and a well-rehearsed, “I’m fine.”
“I understand you’re juggling a lot,” Alec says carefully.“And I don’t want to push my agenda.Not that I have one perfectly defined, but?—”
“There’s an agenda?”I stop walking and face him, arms crossing automatically.“What, you want us gone?Going to slide a check under my door like a romantic eviction notice?”
“Don’t interrupt me,” he says softly, but it hits like a pause I wasn’t expecting.
I blink.
“If we want this to work, we need better communication.Interrupting doesn’t help.”
“Work?”I repeat.“What exactly is supposed to work here?”
“You and me,” he says.
My brain does a backflip.Or maybe the sidewalk shifts.Hard to tell.I’m losing all my equilibrium here.
He exhales, like the words taste strange coming out.“Look, I’m having a lot of internal conflict because I don’t like getting attached?—”
I roll my eyes and open my mouth.
He points at me before I can speak.“My turn.Then you talk.”
I glare but bite my tongue.Barely.
“I’m not only attracted to you,” he says.“I’m falling.Slowly.Probably against my better judgment.But it’s happening, and I’m not going to pretend it’s not.I want you to know exactly where I stand—so when I try to sweep you off your feet, it won’t be by accident.And I’ll be mindful of Mila while I do it.”
I stare at him.
Like, actually stare at him.
“You just ...”I blink.“You said it like you were announcing a fender bender.”
“It isn’t a declaration,” he argues, like that helps.“It’s a warning.”
