Page 54 of One Wrong Move

She nods quickly. Gives me a tentative smile. “I’m sorry about that. Didn’t mean to flash you, I promise.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“Forget you ever saw anything, all right?”

I clear my throat. “Already forgotten.”

It’s the second lie I’ve told her in the past two weeks. Because try as I may, try as I should, I won’t be able to forget the sight.

She smiles at me again. “Thanks. Um, there’s yogurt in the fridge if you want breakfast. Let me change… I’ll come down.”

I head down the stairs. “Take your time,” I say over my shoulder.

It isn’t until I’m alone in the kitchen, out of her presence, that I release the breath I’ve been holding. Grabbing a hold of the counter, my knuckles turn white.

I shouldn’t have seen that. Shouldn’t have scared her.

There are so many boundaries already crossed in my imagination, but now that I’ve actually seen her… it’s going to be impossible to stop traversing over more invisible lines.

I push the thought away. Bury it deep inside like I’ve done so many times before. Focus on Harper instead.

She’d been embarrassed.

Even though she had nothing to be embarrassed about. The woman is perfection. I’ve always known it, and seeing her now, well…

Perfection was too mild a word.

I head to the giant coffee machine in the corner. The elaborate, gleaming metal contraption that can make everything from a flat white to a latte to espresso. A purchase I made last summer and seldom use. It’s quicker to have coffee delivered to my office.

I don’t know what she likes.

But I turn it on and make both a cappuccino and espresso. Opening the fridge, I find a container of orange juice. After draining a full glass, I roll my neck. Reach for my phone.

I need to leave.

But I should say something first. Tell her that it’s okay. That I’m sorry. That she shouldn’t be embarrassed. But the words feel stilted, uncomfortable in my mind, and I’m halfway out of the kitchen when her hurried footsteps echo on the stairs.

She’s dressed now. An oversized printed dress, a tweed jacket, and a pair of ballet flats.

Her hair is pulled back in a low bun.

“Hey,” she says.

I smile back. It’s automatic. “Hi.”

“Smells like coffee. Did you…?”

I shove my hands in my pockets. “Yeah.”

“Oooh, you’re using the cappuccino function. I haven’t tried that one, yet. Is that what you normally drink?”

“Yeah,” I say. A second lie of the morning, and it’s not even eight. I take a step closer and open my mouth to apologize.

“I’ve never even seen it being used.” She cuts me off before I could get the words out. “Do you make coffee in the morning? If so, you must clean it thoroughly once you’re done.”

“I rarely use it.” There. Some truth.

Her eyes widen. “You should! This is like… the Rolls-Royce of coffee machines.”

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