Page 44 of Common Grounds

I shrug noncommittally. “I tend to stick to myself, mostly. I have my small circle. That’s all I need.”

“What about guys you meet when you’re out?”

I laugh drily. “How it happened with you is how it generally happens all the time. Not that it happens a lot. Just, you know—”

“Emery,” he cuts me off gently. “It’s okay.”

“Okay,” I say, almost breathless. How does this man turn me on and make me feel so at ease, all in the same conversation?

He studies me for a moment longer, then squares his shoulders as if he’s decided he wants to say something. “I’m surprised one of those guys hasn’t made an honest woman out of you yet.” He offers a slight, teasing smile.

There’s no malice in it. No judgment. Maybe some curiosity, but his open expression is more interested than critical.

His voice reverberates in my mind. It’s okay.

And, suddenly, it is. I was married once. An “honest woman,” as he put it. Now I’m not. Sure, most men who have stuck around long enough to learn this about me have found some fault in it, but there’s nothing about Trevor that makes me think he’ll be the same.

Besides, we’re just working together, right? My other colleagues know about Derek. Why not loop Trevor in?

I huff. “Been there, done that.”

I know I shouldn’t care what he thinks, but I do. I search his face for any sign of pity or disgust, and all I find is understanding. As if this explains me. And a small, upward tilt of his lips, like he’s glad to be in possession of a piece of my history.

I linger in his soft gaze for another moment, but I’m torn out of it when my watch buzzes. “Oh shit. I have an interview in” —I check my watch—“Now, actually. I have to get going.” I rush back to the table, grab my bag, and sling it over my shoulder. Just as I’m about to leave, I stop and rifle through my bag for my wallet.

“Crap. You made me like three lattes today, and I never paid you.” I’m digging and digging in my bag but coming up empty. “Where the hell is my wallet?”

I dump my bag on the table so I can look through it more easily. I don’t notice Trevor coming closer until he’s right next to me and his hand is on mine, squeezing. It takes all my effort not to zero in on that slight contact.

His hand is warm and rough, and the skin of his palm is dry from constant hand-washing. It scrapes against the back of my hand and, dammit, now I’m remembering the way his hands felt against my hips, between my thighs…

“It’s really okay,” he says again. The soothing tone of his voice draws my gaze to his. We’re almost eye-level, but he makes me feel smaller. Not in an insignificant way, in the way I assume a tinier woman might feel enveloped by the soothing presence of a man much larger than her.

He squeezes my hand again, almost as if he doesn’t want to let it go. “You saw all these people in here today. We’re talking at least a sixty percent increase of customers, just from your articles. The least I can do is make you a few coffees.”

I swallow hard, his hand still on mine. I force a corner of my mouth to tip up casually, and I hope my face doesn’t reveal the fact that my stomach is in my throat and a whole horde of butterflies has taken up permanent residence there. “We’ve been over this,” I chide. “You need to stop giving things away for free.”

“It’s not free,” he insists. “It’s an exchange.”

An exchange for what? For thirst trap photos and an artificially inflated comments section that essentially objectifies him further?

What am I even doing here? I mean, sure, he’s hot as hell. And we shared a really amazing night together. But he’s off-limits. I might suddenly want someone to talk about my day with, but that doesn’t change the fact that my relationship era is over. And even if it wasn’t, he’s too nice. I’m the exploiter who will stir the pot on a meaningless article just to get more clicks.

I shouldn’t even try. I’ll be a cloud over his sunshine energy. And even if I could ignore that, I need to focus. He needs to focus.

We. All. Need. To. Focus.

But I can’t focus with his hand on mine, so I carefully slip it out from underneath him. His eyes widen slightly in embarrassment, as if he forgot he had been touching me the whole time.

I glance in my bag one more time and decide I must have left my wallet at home in my rush to leave this morning. I blow out a frustrated puff of air through my nose. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to get you next time. I have no idea where my wallet is, anyway.”

“Next time,” he repeats, and the way he says it has me looking up at him again.

It sounds like hope.

God, I should stop this now. I should leave here and never come back. I have enough to fill out two more articles. Who cares if I lose this stupid challenge with Randall? At least I won’t lose my heart in the process.

But when my eyes meet his again, he smiles that same smile from the picture. The one that lights up his whole face and proves his singular focus on me. Just me. And for a moment, it’s like we’re the only two people in the shop. We aren’t, and that in and of itself is a reminder that I need to keep digging deeper to put this place back on the map.

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