Overnight Wife(15)

I roll my eyes with a grimace. “You wish.”

“I don’t have to.” His hand drops over mine, his fingertips finding the ring and toying with it easily. He’s barely touching me, his palm only skimming the back of my hand, yet already it feels like my whole body is on fire, leaning into that touch, yearning for more, more, more.

I suck in a breath, which catches at the back of my throat, both of our gazes fixed on my finger. On the ring, and everything it represents. All the insane, stupid, wild choices we made.

I take another breath, not sure what I’m about to ask—whether I want to ask him to step back and give me more room… Or come closer and wipe away the space between our bodies entirely. Already, my helpful imagination is providing visions of him sweeping a hand across my desk to clear it before he bends me over, his hands running up my sides, down to my hips, gripping me hard, his lips searing across mine again…

Before I can say anything, though, before I can give in and suggest such a terrible idea, he steps back from me on his own, a smirk on his face. And what he says next, I couldn’t have predicted.

“Do you need some help?”

It takes me a second to understand what he means. To see the way he nods toward the almost-finished antlers on the desk.

When he does, my eyebrows lift even higher. “You know how?”

He laughs at that, long and low. “I realize I’m a CEO now, but I didn’t start out that way,” he points out. “I had to learn this business working at other companies, before I started Pitfire.” He turns away from me, but only to cross to where I’ve been keeping the unformed clay. He scoops out a healthy handful, then strides back to the table and pulls up a stool beside me, starting to work the clay between his palms. “I did a lot of prop-making in my early days. I used to love it, actually.”

I watch him knead, distracted by the steady, sure motions of his hands. Watching his hands clench and release, and those long, strong fingers of his dig into the clay, it’s impossible not to think about how his hands felt when they were all over me instead.

Goddamn it. I’m getting wet just sitting next to him—close enough to smell that musky cologne of his, dark and heady—and watching his hands work. I am so fucking screwed, if I think I’m going to be able to work here every day and never give in to him…

I drive the thoughts from my mind with effort. One day at a time. I’m pretty sure that’s what they tell people about how to get over addictions, but it feels fitting in this situation too, worryingly.

Then John catches me watching, and I tear my eyes away, my cheeks burning. “Did you always want to work in this industry?” I ask, just for something, anything to say. To guide our conversation to work topics and my mind away from sexier thoughts.

He doesn’t. He just smiles, a sly little half-grin that tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking, damn him. “It’s always been my passion. For a while, though, I was looking into other career paths. Not usually a lot of money in this one, not unless you’re incredible at it.”

“Lucky you turned out to be,” I reply with a smirk.

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” he answers, his dark eyes glittering in the overhead light. I’m reminded all over again how much he and I have in common when it comes to our work ethics.

After that, we work in silence for a stretch. I finish the rest of the antler set I’m working on, and John starts the final one. Eventually, I pitch in to join him on his, and while we work, we talk a little about our families. He talks about his sister mostly—she went to college for architecture, and she just started working at some fancy firm in Paris. I talk about my mom being proud of me for what I’m doing now. I purposefully don’t mention Dad, afraid of what talking about him will do to me, but John catches the absence, and asks.

“Your father isn’t proud?”

My throat tightens around a sudden lump, but I force my way through it. After all, it’s been two years. I need to get used to this eventually, don’t I? “He probably would be, if he knew. He, uh… he died, a couple years back.” The lump sits there, stubborn, preventing me from saying anything else.

John reaches over to catch my hand, squeezing gently, just enough pressure to let me know he’s here. “I’m so sorry.”

I clear my throat, hard. Then again. “I was closer to him than Mom. More of a daddy’s girl, you know.” I glance around the shop, inadvertently looking toward the machinery Daniel almost injured himself on earlier. “Dad’s the one who taught me how to use most of the stuff in this room, actually. We used to build things together in the garage downstairs. Well, he was always building useful stuff, repairing cars… I was just making useless crap. Decorations and toy swords and stuff.”

John laughs at the mental image. “He sounds great.”

“He was.”

Another silence passes, this one more companionable than our last, filled with less tension. It’s the first time I’ve talked to anyone, including Lea, about my father without immediately bursting into tears. Something about chatting with John is just easy, even when it comes to subjects like this.

Something tells me Dad would have liked him, if they’d ever gotten a chance to meet.

I drive that thought from my mind, my eyes jumping guiltily to the ring I’m wearing. Dad would’ve killed me if he’d ever found out how John and I met, actually. Scratch that. He’d probably just kill John and bury the body somewhere far away, then tell me I was grounded until my mid-thirties.