Page 143 of Between the Lines

She shakes her head. “Sometimes, I think you see more in me than what’s really there.”

“Impossible.”

“Thank you,” she says, but doesn’t meet my eyes. She’s looking down at her dim sum.

“For what?”

“For acting like yesterday didn’t happen. For not asking me about it.”

I put my hand on hers. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

She nods—a tiny movement—and blows out a breath. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.”

“You will. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

“You’re saying that, but you haven’t seen my season,” she says. She cocks her head and meets my gaze again. “Can I say something? And please don’t read too much into it?”

I fight to hide a smile. “Yes.”

“Well, it’s notthatserious. But I’ve been thinking. You once said that you don’t do relationships because you work too much.”

I reach for my drink. “Yeah, I did say that.”

“I’ve seen you work a lot.”

“Mm-hmm. I think we both work a lot,” I say. “I’ve seen you stay up late writing… almost every day.”

“Yeah. Maybe that’s a bad habit we both share.”

“It definitely is.”

“I don’t know how I would fit a relationship in, either.” She holds her glass of wine. Her third tonight, and there’s something honest in the air. I put down my chopsticks. “With all the work.”

“Work is important,” I say.

She nods. “Yes. It is.”

“That’s the reason I haven’t pursued anything serious in years. There hasn’t been time.” I reach for my glass and look at her over the rim. “But I’m starting to think that work shouldn’t be themostimportant thing in my life.”

“Yeah.” She smiles a little. “I’ve been thinking about that, too.”

After dinner, Charlotte leans into me as we wait for the elevator. She smells good, and I nuzzle her temple. It feels painfully easy to get used to having her beside me. To watch her chase her dreams and have her sleep in my arms.

It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done, surrendering to my feelings for her. At every turn where it should terrify me, I find myself… excited instead.

Falling is easy.

We’re standing outside the upscale restaurant, waiting for our driver. People walk by us, line up, or head on out. A group of fashionably dressed twentysomethings get out of a car. Two women in high heels and a lone man.

One of the women locks eyes on Charlotte.

Not surprising. She’s gorgeous.

But the woman’s gaze lingers. She nudges her friend, and they both giggle.

“Hi,” one of them says to us. She’s dark-blonde with eyes rimmed with black make-up.

Charlotte is tense beside me, and I keep my hand on her waist. “Hello,” I say.

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