Page 61 of Across the Boards

It would be so easy to let this continue, to lose myself in sensation and worry about the consequences tomorrow. I haven’t felt this alive, this desired, in longer than I care to admit. But a persistent voice in the back of my mind reminds me that I’ve learned the hard way what happens when you let passion override common sense.

The memory flashes vividly – finding Jason’s phone when he was in the shower, the text notification that popped up from ‘A’ with a heart emoji. Opening it to find a conversation history that made my stomach drop through the floor. How he’d explained it away as ‘just flirting,’ and I’d wanted so badly to believe him that I’d ignored the warning signs for another six months.

“Brody.” I push gently against his chest, creating space between us. “I’m serious.”

He immediately pulls back, concern replacing desire in his eyes. “Too fast?”

“A little.” I sit up, adjusting my dress and trying to regain some composure. “It’s just... this is all happening very quickly, and I’m not…”

“It’s okay,” he says when I trail off, his voice gentle. “We can take this as slow as you need.”

I look at him with his hair disheveled from my hands, lips slightly swollen from our kisses, bow tie askew—and feel a surge of something dangerously close to affection.

“It’s not just about speed,” I try to explain. “It’s about... practicality. You’re not even thirty. I’m closer to forty. You’re a hockey player, constantly traveling, surrounded by women half my age. I’m a technical editor who gets excited about proper semicolon usage.”

Even as I say the words, I hate how insecure they make me sound. I’ve never been one to fish for compliments or seek reassurance. But something about Brody Carter makes me feel off-balance, like the rules I’ve carefully constructed for my life no longer apply.

His expression shifts from concern to something more serious. “First of all, semicolons are sexy as hell.”

Despite myself, I laugh. “Focus, Carter.”

“I am focusing. On the fact that you’re overthinking this.” He takes my hand, his thumb rubbing small circles against my palm. “Yes, I’m younger. Yes, my job involves travel. But none of that changes how I feel about you.”

“And how exactly do you feel?” I challenge, pulling my hand away. “We’ve known each other for three weeks. Or two decent conversations from three years ago, if you want to be technical.”

The sudden vulnerability that flashes across his face catches me off guard. It’s gone almost immediately, replaced by determination, but I saw it—a crack in the confident façade.

“I’ve been thinking about you since I was twenty-four, since I got traded to Boston,” he says quietly. “That conversation at the Christmas party... it stuck with me. When Tommy mentioned you lived here, that you might be at the complex when I moved in, I?—”

“Wait.” I hold up a hand, my stomach twisting with a sudden nauseating lurch. “Are you saying you knew I lived here before you moved in?”

He hesitates, which is answer enough.

“Brody.” My voice is surprisingly steady despite the blood rushing in my ears. “Did you intentionally move in next door to me?”

The guilty look on his face makes my stomach drop. I stand abruptly, nearly knocking over my water glass. My hands are actually trembling.

“It wasn’t exactly like that,” he begins, but his expression tells me everything.

“Then what was it exactly like?” I step back, putting distance between us. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds an awful lot like you orchestrated this whole thing. Like you deliberately inserted yourself into my life without my knowledge.”

“Not orchestrated,” he protests, rising to follow me. “I just... when Tommy mentioned you lived here, I thought it might be a sign. A second chance to talk to you. That’s all.”

“A sign,” I repeat flatly. “So what was the locked-out incident? Divine intervention? Did you deliberately lock yourself out so you’d have an excuse to knock on my door?”

He has the grace to look embarrassed. “That was genuinely an accident. I really did lock myself out.”

“But the shirtless part? The coffee? The ‘oh, I remember you from that Christmas party’?” The back of my throat burns with a familiar tightness that precedes tears - tears I refuse to shed.

“All real,” he insists, hands spread. “I swear. Yes, I knew you lived here. Yes, I specifically requested this unit because it’s next to yours. But everything else—the coffee, the tacos, tonight—that’s all been genuine, Elliot.”

I pace my living room, feeling suddenly trapped in my own home. The desert-themed artwork on my walls - carefully selected pieces from local Phoenix artists - now seem to mock my attempt at creating a controlled life. Part of me is flattered, I suppose, that he would go to such lengths. But a larger part is unnerved, verging on angry.

I’ve spent three years rebuilding my life on my terms, carefully arranging my independence after having it shattered by Jason’s betrayal. The idea that someone has been orchestrating events around me without my knowledge—however well-intentioned—feels like another man deciding he knows what’s best for me without consulting me first.

“You should have told me,” I say finally, my voice tight. “From the beginning. The very first day at the park.”

“I know.” He runs a hand through his already-disheveled hair. “I meant to, but there never seemed to be a right time. And then it had been too long, and I worried you’d react exactly... well, like this.”

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