Page 43 of She Was Made for Me

“Of course. My whole life is there.” Well, my career, which I guess is the same thing. “I just need to do a good job on this project so I can prove I have project management experience, which will help me move into a better role when I go back. That’s why this needs to be perfect.”

I stare across at Manhattan, listening to the sound of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway that runs beneath the Promenade. The city glitters in the dusky pink light and I try to ignore the way my heart aches at the thought of leaving this place again.

“I’m so sorry, Violet,” Kyle says. When I glance at him in surprise, he’s looking down at his hands.

“Why?”

“I know I haven’t been easy to work with. I’ve made the situation harder than it needs to be, and I didn’t even consider how that could affect you.”

I study him in silence, the ache in my chest growing stronger. His broad shoulders slump, and he runs a hand wearily over his face. I love the dark cut of his beard against his cheek, the way his green eyes cloud when he’s lost in thought. I think back to last week, when I finally let myself acknowledge how much I liked him, and how hard it was to focus on work after that—how it was easier to act like a child, or avoid him altogether.

“It’s okay,” I mumble. “I understand why you did.”

Clouds gather above us and a breeze lifts off the East River, ruffling my hair. Kyle reaches out to brush a strand back from my face, his eyes searching mine. “You were right, you know.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but my breath falters at the intensity in his gaze. “About what?”

“That day in Joe’s, when we met. You were right.”

He’s standing so close to me that I can barely think straight, so it takes me a few seconds to understand. “You mean… you were going to ask me out?”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, and nods.

My stomach flutters in response, sending a thrill through me. I knew it. God, I knew it.

“I wish you had,” I whisper.

He looks pained, drawing his hand away, the spell apparently broken. “It’s probably a good thing I didn’t.”

I feel cold at the loss of his touch. “Why?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

He gives a hollow laugh. “Do you know how inappropriate it is that I hit on the daughter of my best friend? I thought you were in your thirties, or something. And as for being related to Rich—”

“You didn’t know,” I say gently. “I didn’t know who you were either.”

He gives a slow nod, looking at Manhattan across the river. “But I do now, Violet.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, because I understand exactly what he’s saying. Now that he knows my real age, that I’m Rich’s daughter, he can’t unknow that. He probably thinks it would be a betrayal to Dad, even if I’m a grown woman who can make my own decisions.

Even if I want him more than I’ve wanted any man I’ve ever met.

There’s a loud crack in the sky above and we both startle, glancing up. I hadn’t realized how gray the sky had become because I’d been too focused on Kyle, but now a fat raindrop lands on my cheek, followed by another.

“We should go.” Kyle steps back from the railing. From me. “This way.”

I follow him north along the Promenade, watching people scatter, dodging raindrops as they fall, that familiar smell of fresh rain on pavement clinging to the air. Kyle breaks into a light jog as the rain picks up, but I can’t keep up in my sandals. I stop to take them off, and he notices, turning back for me. He takes my shoes, then slides his other hand into mine, and we begin to jog as the rain pelts down in sheets. It’s only a few blocks, but I’m out of breath by the time we arrive at the house. Kyle, on the other hand, hasn’t even broken a sweat.

We tumble into the entry hall, rain lashing against the door as it closes behind us, and I step away from Kyle, taking a moment to catch my breath. We’re soaked through, my hair trailing rivulets of water down my chest and shoulders, Kyle’s beard dripping on the foyer floor. And my dress is stuck to me, no doubt revealing some things that probably shouldn’t be revealed.

I glance up to see if Kyle has noticed, but he’s too busy peeling his sopping wet shirt from his body and tossing it into a soggy pile on the floor.

I stop breathing altogether at that point.

Holy hell, he is pure eye candy. He’s in such good shape—hardly surprising given his job and his level of fitness—and while he’s not sculpted in the way a man who spends his life at the gym might be, he’s muscular and solid from long days of hard work. The salt and pepper hair on his chest tapers to his navel, and my eyes stray to the top of his jeans, desperate for him to keep undressing. I almost beg him not to stop but catch myself just in time, letting out a tiny squeak instead.

Fuck. Me.

He lifts a hand to rake it through his damp hair, unaware of my roving eyes, and I catch a glimpse of a tattoo on his upper bicep and shoulder that I didn’t know was there. It’s a moose in front of a forest and mountains.

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