Page 82 of Holding On To Good

But when she tried to brush past him, nose lifted, shoulders back, imaginary crown on her head, he blocked her like a big, bearded wall. “We have to talk about it,” he said quietly.

He might be in her way, but she wasn’t willing to back down. She’d had a craptastic weekend and she deserved a win, even if that win cost her some of her pride. “I don’t want to talk about it. Especially not here with our crew waiting outside the door. Bad enough you dragged me in here—”

“I didn’t drag you—”

“—in front of Rick and Jason. You know what a gossip Rick is,” she said, lowering her voice in case they were standing just outside with their ears pressed to the door. Which she wouldn’t put past Rick. “God only knows what crazy story he’s coming up with about what what’s going on between us. Everyone’s going to get the wrong idea.”

“No one’s going to get the wrong idea.”

“How can you be so sure? Do you honestly think that, just because you don’t want them to get the wrong idea, they won’t?” She waved vaguely at his crotch. “Or maybe having a penis gives you some sort of magical insight into the human condition those of us without that particular appendage are lacking.”

He sighed, the long, drawn-out sigh of frustrated males the world over—poor souls who were forced to deal with unreasonable, moody females.

The big baby.

“Willow,” he said, her name a low rumble. “Why are you so pissed at me?”

The question was quiet. Sincere.

As if he truly was confused and maybe even a little bit hurt.

It was her turn to sigh—though quietly and with much less drama. This whole thing was such a mess. Yes, she was angry. At him for how he’d touched her last night. How he’d pulled her closer. How he’d looked at her, as if she was something new and special. Like she was a gift.

How he’d kissed her.

But she was also mad at herself. For being so pathetically, stupidly in love with him.

“I’m pissed because you won’t drop this,” she whisper-shouted, wanting to get her point across without it spreading past the office walls. “And you had no right to drag me in here—”

“Again with the dragging?”

“—and hold me hostage—”

“Hostage? For Christ’s sake—”

“—and demand we discuss something I have no wish to discuss. As far as I’m concerned, we’ve said all there is to say about what happened. I told you I didn’t want to talk about it. I made it very clear that what happened between us over the weekend was not up for discussion. It’s not fair,” she continued, her voice trembling, her tone thick with unshed tears and frustration, “for you to think all you have to do is” —she snapped her fingers— “and I’ll come to heel. That you get to decide what we will do. What we won’t do. Or what we have to do. You don’t. Not for me. Not on this.”

Well, that had been quite the heartfelt, impassioned speech. She’d give him a moment to digest it in full. Which he seemed to do slowly and in teeny tiny bites. The sounds of conversation out in the shop grew as more of their crew arrived.

And still Urban studied her, as if she was a puzzle he’d previously completed but the picture had changed. And a piece or two had gone missing. She kept her expression neutral, giving no more of her thoughts away.

As always, keeping the most important ones to herself.

Finally, he inclined his head, the Urban Jennings way of acknowledging defeat without actually having to admit it and stepped aside. She brushed past him. She’d been right. This conversation had cost her some pride, but no more than that. It was a loss she was willing to suffer, because in the end, she’d won this round.

Now things between her and Urban really could go back to how they used to be.

And stay that way.

“What’s crawled up your ass?”

Urban scowled at Miles. “Nothing.”

Miles leaned back. Crossed his arms over the front of his uniform. “If I’d known you were going to be such shitty company, I would’ve eaten at the bar.”

Urban jerked his head to the right at the few empty seats at the horseshoe-shaped bar—Monday nights at Binge were steady, but not nearly as busy as the weekend rush. “Not too late,” he told Miles over the sound of clinking silverware and conversation.

“And leave you alone, wallowing in beer and misery?” Miles made a tsking sound. “What kind of brother would that make me?”

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