Page 67 of The Assist
“I do,” I admit. “And it’s a problem.”
“No, Mia. It’s a complication. Problems can’t be solved. Complications can.”
“Thanks, Confucius.”
“You’re welcome. So, what now?” Sophie lifts her coffee to her lips and blows gently across the surface.
I rub my forehead with the heel of my hand. “I honestly don’t know. I think I need to be around him and not fall apart. See if I can still do my job without my pulse going haywire.”
“Solid plan. Just remember, self-control doesn’t meanself-denial. Sometimes you have to let yourself have the thing you want before you can figure out what to do with it.”
I exhale, nodding slowly. “You should write a book.”
“Ishould,” she agrees. “But for now, I’ll settle for watching my best friend fall ass-backwards in love.”
“I’m not.”
“Yousoare.”
I spend the rest of the morning deep-cleaning my kitchen, because nothing says emotional avoidance like scrubbing grout with a toothbrush. I text Dylan once to ask if his mate’s definitely picking up the car today. He replies a minute later with:Already sorted. Told you he owed me.
No kisses. No innuendo. Just that. Which somehow feels more intimate than a dozen flirty texts.
He’s respecting my space. And I don’t know what to do with that either.
By the time two o’clock rolls around, I’ve nearly talked myself out of everything; last night, this morning, the way I saidstayand meant it. But then I walk into my bedroom and see the pillow that still smells like him, and my heart does that ridiculous thing where it clenches and softens at the same time.
I pick it up, hug it to my chest, and sit on the bed.
Maybe Sophie’s right.
Maybe this doesn’t have to be an all-or-nothing disaster.
Maybe I just let myself feel it for a while. See where it takes me. See if he keeps showing up, even when it’s not easy. Even when I’m moody or stressed or being a total nightmare about boundaries.
Because last night, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
DYLAN
Jonno’s idea of a “light session” is clearly some sadistic inside joke. My legs are already screaming, and we’ve only just finished warm-ups. We’re running suicides across the rink like it’s pre-season all over again.
Murphy skates past me, backwards, naturally, with that shit-eating grin of his.
“Oi Diesel,” he calls, loud enough for half the team to hear. “You skate like you’re carrying the weight of a thousand feelings on your shoulders.”
“Piss off,” I grunt, pushing harder. My thighs are burning and I’m gasping, but I’ll be damned if I let Murphy lap me again.
“Oh no,” he yells dramatically, “he’sbrooding. Watch out lads, someone probably kissed him and said something emotional.”
Laughter echoes off the rafters. Ollie nearly trips over his own skates from laughing too hard. Even Jonno’s struggling to keep a straight face behind his clipboard.
I don’t rise to it. I just push harder. The jokes sting less than the truth of them.
Itwasemotional. Itwasa kiss that lingered longer than it should have. Itwasher asking me to staylike she didn’t know how to be alone with her thoughts anymore. Like I’m not the only one struggling to breathe when she’s near me.
By the time we’re done with drills, my hoodie’s soaked through, my muscles are aching in that good way. The kind that says you’ve worked hard, but also reminds you you’re not eighteen anymore. I drop onto the bench and rip my helmet off, rubbing at the back of my neck. Murphy flops down beside me, breathless and smug.
