Page 57 of Never Let You Go

Forget respect her. I admire her for that. “She’s great with Skye.” That’s maybe the most important part of it all, as far as I’m concerned.

“Well, brownie point.”

Okay. I gotta rip that Band-aid off.

“Look, Emma. You’re an amazing woman, a good friend, and a great accountant.”

She sighs and sets her glass on the coffee table with a loud clank. “I get it,” she bites out. She stands and smooths her skirt, grabs my file, and sits at the dining room table. “Alright, then. Let’s look at this.”

We go over my taxes for the next hour or so, maybe less. It feels like fucking forever.

Her eyes are shiny, and I feel bad for her. I really do. I believe everything I told her. She’s a great woman, and she deserves someone great in her life. That someone cannot be me. I feel nothing but friendship and respect for Emma.

I don’t feel anything else, and I don’t want to take advantage of her.

Sure, I’m lonesome, and she must be too. It’d be easy for me to slide into her bed. Right this minute, actually. She’s attractive and she has a lot going for her.

We’re finally done with our taxes. We both stand awkwardly. She licks her lips and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Chris. You mean a lot to me.” Before I know it, her head is on my chest, and she squeezes me.

“Sorry, Emma. I can’t be that person for you.”

“That’s why I love you. You’re so honest.”

I gently push her away. “Emma. You don’t love me. We’ve been through that already. Come on.”

I wonder if it’s cyclical with Emma. We do have this uncomfortable conversation every couple of years, after all.

I move to put my coat on.

“Can we still be friends?”

“Of course. Just friends, right.”

She hugs me again, and I pat her back in what I hope comes across as a friendly gesture, no misunderstanding.

Then I head home to the one woman I don’t want to be just friends with.

fifteen

Alexandra

The front door chimes, followed by Christopher’s footsteps up the wooden staircase. He’s been gone a couple of hours, maybe three. I didn’t keep track. All I know is, the evening is in its second phase.

After Skye was done painting, I heated up some soup for her dinner, cleaned the kitchen, then we went upstairs. I read her a story, we got her ready for bed—which included a heart-to-heart girls’ talk that she’s very adept at initiating—and now she’s all tucked in.

Christopher reaches the landing, and my heart does a little somersault at the sexy mess of his hair. At the way his mouth twitches in a smile when he catches me looking.

At the way his eyes dance on me.

“Hey,” he says softly, and my heartbeat picks up at that simple word. At the way he says it to me. He breaks our gaze to flick a floor lamp on, and I take it all in.

The stubble he shaved off this afternoon already growing back. His slightly bloodshot eyes, from being tired, not drunk. His white button-down shirt, stretching against his pecs. He’s rolled the sleeves up, and why do I find that so sexy on him?

His eyes snap to mine. “How’d it go?” I ask.

“Like a meeting with an accountant,” he huffs.

My gaze slides down his body, then my blood turns to ice. “Really.”

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