Page 89 of The Accidental Text

I pull my lips upward. “I never once thought I couldn’t.”

She takes a big inhale and then gives me a few quick nods of her head. “Okay,” she says. “That makes me feel better. I just kept thinking about everything and I was … worried about you.”

I smile. “And I love you for it. I’m sorry if it ruined your trip.”

“No.” She waves my words away with her hand. “Mark’s mom had that job.”

“That bad?”

She blows air out of her cheeks and lets her head hang down slightly. “Worse than bad.”

“Tell me,” I say.

“I can’t right now, but I promise I will later. I have so much work to catch up on,” she says, standing up from the chair.

She says goodbye, looking much lighter than she did when she first came in, and walks out the door.

Thirty seconds later there’s a knock on the wall outside my door and I lift my head up, expecting to see Chelsea back again. But then I remember Chelsea never knocks.

Instead, Dawson is in my doorway, in black coveralls, his dark-blond hair styled just perfectly. He looks rather delicious, even if my heart doesn’t speed up all that much in his presence. My pits seem completely dry right now too. My palms are slightly sweaty, though. I may nevernothave a reaction to him.

“Hey there,” I say, feeling the words roll off my tongue. I haven’t felt tongue-tied around Dawson in a while. Maybe it’s because I haven’t even tried to make a move in a long time. It doesn’t feel like something I want to do right now. I’m notsaying it’s off the table completely, but I’ve set that thought on the back burner.

“Hey,” he says in response. “You got that paperwork for Mateo?”

“Yep, right here,” I say, tapping on the neat stack of papers on my desk. I grab a manila folder from the bottom drawer and place the paperwork inside of it.

“May I?” he asks, gesturing toward the folder.

It’s funny, now that I’m not so caught up in making my feelings known to him, I’m noticing new things about Dawson. Like how sort of shy he is. Especially around me. His cheeks turn a light shade of pink, just on the apples, nearly every time we have a conversation. I don’t know if this is a new development or I’m just noticing now because I can take note of such things without the distraction of my erratically beating heart and my sweaty palms and pits.

I give him a nod and he walks up to grab the paperwork. I push the folder toward the other side of my desk to make it easy for him to grab, and maybe I pushed too far, or Dawson didn’t get a good hold on the folder, because somehow it ends up falling off my desk and all of the papers fall out and fly around, landing in all directions on the floor.

Dawson swears under his breath.

“So sorry,” I say, and stand up from my chair. I move around to the other side of my desk where Dawson is already on hands and knees trying to gather up all the paperwork. I get down on the ground and help him.

“No, I’m the one that’s sorry,” he says as he’s trying to gather everything. There are probably only about twenty sheets, but they’re spread out around us and hard to pick up offthe epoxy flooring. There’s no give between the paper and the floor, making it hard to get a finger underneath.

We end up sort of brushing them into a pile with our hands, which makes it easier to pick up. We’re also laughing at the ridiculousness of the whole thing: both of us on the floor, trying like mad to pick up all these papers.

Once we get it all somewhat together, we’re both still chuckling, and we sit back on our heels, so close that I can feel his shoulder touching mine. I turn my head to find Dawson watching me, and something shifts in his expression. He’s not smiling anymore and his eyes have taken on a more serious look—almost like he’s determined to do something. Before I can think of what that might be, he leans his face in and presses his lips against mine.

His lips are warm and full, and my eyes flutter shut at the contact. The kiss probably only lasts a few seconds before he pulls away. I keep my eyes closed, feeling so many things right now. So many thoughts running through my mind. When I open my eyes he’s looking at me, his cheeks red, his eyes curious.

I touch my fingers to my lips, not entirely sure what just transpired.

“Was that … did I …” he says, not completing a sentence.

My body, working on its own, stands up from the floor. It’s an instinctive response, like a fight-or-flight thing.

Dawson jumps up to his feet as well. He swipes a hand down his face. “I’m … so sorry, Maggie. Did I … did I get that wrong?”

“What?”

He closes his eyes for just a second and then opens them. “Itseemed like … I thought that …” he stops himself, looking frustrated by his inability to form a full sentence.

I let out a breath. “You didn’t get that wrong, Dawson,” I say, and he does a whole upper-body sagging thing, in relief.

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