Page 70 of The Only Time

“Of course,” she says heavily, still panting from her release. “I’ll see you tonight.”

I hang up and throw my phone onto my desk. What the hell am I doing? Jerking off in my office is unacceptable and completely out of character for me.

I grab several tissues off of my desk and clean myself up the best that I can, so I can move to the bathroom.

By the time I get home, I’m exhausted and frustrated with myself. I’m all twisted inside and have no idea how to handle it. The reality of it all is that it has everything to do with Mia.

I’ve shared more with her than I have with anyone. I’ve opened up old wounds that I’ve done everything in my power to forget about.

When I walk through the door, the familiarity of it all starts to feel suffocating this time. The homemade dinner, the smile on her face. How did I let this happen?

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Mia

I’m going to do it. Tonight, after dinner, I’m going to tell him that I can go home. I’ve been thinking about telling him that I’m in no rush and can stay a little while longer—for safety purposes.

There doesn’t seem to be any harm in me staying. I don’t know why I’m so nervous to tell him. Perhaps I’m hoping he will be upset at the possibility of me leaving, maybe not want me to go.

I can’t deny my feelings for him. In these seven weeks that I’ve been here, he’s somehow managed to burrow his way deep into my heart, grumpiness and all—I love him.

It defies logic or reason. There’s just something there, this magnetic pull between us that I can’t describe.

I look at him across the dinner table and my heart skips a beat. He seems a bit sad tonight. He’s always so tense when he gets home from work. I hate that for him. I wish he could admit howunhappy he is at his job. His true passion is woodworking, and he’s so talented.

Maybe I should start with telling him what I’ve been working on in my free time. I can’t bear to see him come home from work another day carrying this load of stress.

“I’ve been working on something,” I tell him from across the table.

“Oh yeah?” he asks as he chews his food. “What’s that?”

“I created a logo and a marketing plan for your woodwork,” I say, kind of excited now to show him what I’ve come up with.

His fork falls onto his plate, the contact sending a loud clatter throughout the room. “Why would you do that?”

“You just love it so much. It makes you happy. And I hate how unhappy you are when you’re at work. I thought maybe you should consider…”

“Who said I wasn’t happy at work? I don’t remember saying that,” he states.

“It’s just that ever since you’ve been back at work, you come home stressed. And the way you talked about your work, you didn’t seem happy about it,” I reply, my voice shaky with nerves.

“You know, sometimes a job is just a job. Not everyone gets to do something that they love, but that doesn’t give you the right to go around judging others careers. This is typical. Is anything I do ever good enough?”

My body trembles as I try to figure out what I said that is so wrong. I thought he would be excited about this. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe I am overstepping.

“I’m sorry. I guess I misjudged the situation. I didn’t mean to offend you,” I say softly.

“You didn’t mean to offend me when you took it upon yourself to tell me how to live my life when you’ve known me for all of two months. And what happens when I make the career change andcan’t afford to live in this house anymore. Would you still find me very appealing?”

He pushes his chair away from the table and storms out of the room. Tears run down my cheeks as I try to register what just happened.

He never did ask me to get involved with his life. I just got so inspired by his passion and skills that I thought he would like what I came up with. Now I feel so stupid.

I stuck my nose in his business when he never asked me to. I suddenly get this strong feeling that I’m just getting in the way. Maybe he doesn’t want me here anymore but he feels bad because of my situation.

I stand up from the table and search the house until I find him sitting in his office on the brown leather couch with a glass of whiskey. He seems to be concentrating awfully hard on his whiskey glass as he turns it around and stares at it from different angles.

“Hi,” I say hesitantly as I walk into his office.

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