Page 21 of Worth the Fall

"Your tie is crooked," she murmurs just before the doors open, reaching up to straighten it. Her fingers graze my neck and my breath catches. But she doesn’t linger. Instead, she turns and steps off the elevator, and I fall in step beside her.

The coffee shop is quiet this late, just a few other patrons scattered at corner tables. We find a booth tucked away from the main counter, and suddenly the professional pretense feels paper-thin.

The lights are dim, and I can barely tear my eyes away from her as I reach for the water carafe. When our fingers brush while I'm filling her glass, electricity shoots through me. I've never been so attuned to another person's presence—every small movement she makes draws me in like a magnet.

"How's the drink?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended, betraying my desire. I watch her lips curve around the rim of her glass, and my grip tightens on the stem of my own drink. Everything about her demands my attention—the delicate line of her throat, the way her hair falls softly around her face, how her cheeks flush when our eyes meet.

"Perfect," she breathes, and I notice her watching my hands as I take a sip. The way she looks at me, like she's imagining those same hands on her body, makes my blood run hot. I wantto reach across this table and show her exactly what these hands can do.

I catch her staring and can't help the dark hunger that rises in my eyes. The space between us feels charged, almost unbearable. I let my leg brush against hers under the table, a deliberate test of control, and feel her shiver in response.

She's overwhelming every one of my senses—the subtle floral scent of her perfume drawing me closer, the way her dress hugs her curves, how my name sounds different when it falls from her lips. It's intoxicating, and I'm drowning willingly.

"So," she says, fiddling with her coffee sleeve, "those contract clauses…"

"Mia." Her name comes out rougher than I intend, and her eyes snap to mine. "I didn't ask you here to review contracts just to review contracts."

She lets out a shaky breath. "I didn't say yes just to review contracts either."

The honesty hangs between us, changing everything and nothing all at once. I reach across the table, running my thumb across her knuckles where her hands are wrapped around her cup.

"This feels…" she starts.

"Complicated?" I offer.

"I was going to say inevitable." Her fingers intertwine with mine. "But complicated works too."

"I have to think about Felicity," I say quietly, even as my thumb traces patterns on her palm. "She's my whole world."

"I know." She squeezes my hand. "She should be. That's part of why I…" She trails off, blushing.

"Part of why you what?"

"Part of why I can't stop thinking about you," she admits softly. "The way you are with her, how your whole face lights up when you talk about her… it's beautiful."

The simple honesty in her words hits me right in the chest. I've dated since Celine, but no one's ever understood that Felicity isn't just part of the package—she's the whole point. "There's something here," I say quietly, gesturing between us. "Something real. And it terrifies me because it's not just my heart I have to protect anymore."

"I know." She traces the lines on my palm absently. "And I have my own baggage. Twelve years is a long time to be with someone. To plan a whole future and then have to start over."

"So, maybe"—I shift closer, drawn to her like gravity—"we take it slow. Figure it out together."

"Together," she repeats, testing the word. "I'd like that."

The coffee shop lights dim, signaling closing time, but neither of us moves. Her hand is still in mine, and something has fundamentally shifted between us. No more pretending this is just about contracts or coffee or coincidence.

"Walk you to your ride?" I ask, reluctant to end the evening but knowing we both have early mornings ahead.

Outside, the night air is cool but I barely notice, too focused on how naturally her hand fits in mine as we walk. At her ride, she turns to face me, and the streetlight catches the gold in her hair.

"Thank you," she says softly, "for finding an excuse to see me again."

"Thank you for saying yes." I reach up, finally allowing myself to brush that loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath catches at the contact.

"Miguel," she whispers, and the way she says my name undoes me. I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away, but she meets me halfway.

When I finally kiss her, it's like a dam breaking. All the careful restraint, all the professional distance I've tried to maintain dissolves in an instant. The first brush of her lipsagainst mine is soft, questioning. The second is anything but. My fingers tangle in her soft hair as I back her against the wall, swallowing her gasp with my mouth. The feel of her body pressing against mine is better than any fantasy.

"Miguel," she breathes against my lips, her hands fisting in my shirt.

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