Page 39 of Lovesick

two weeks later

I’ve gotten back to my regular workflow, and I was feeling much better. Physically, but especially mentally. It’s been a while since I’ve felt this way. Clear-headed, calm, and capable of handling every situation Dean and I were put in together.

The tension between us had settled into something manageable. Still a little cold on my side, but polite. He kept his distance just like I asked, never lingering too long. He kept things professional, and I appreciated that. Still, there were…moments.

Moments where I caught him watching me when he thought I wouldn’t notice.

Moments when he looked like he had something to say, and I pretended not to notice.

Today, we had a meeting with the clients and their legal team. Some settlement negotiation that had gotten messy over the past few months. Dean and I walked into the conference room together, and while there were enough chairs to choose from, I decided that this morning, I would sit next to him again.

I had taken a seat on the other side of the table the past weeks. Further away from him, but close enough to still take all the notes I needed to.

We sat down, and Dean gave me a quick look. One that told me he was surprised. I didn’t let him read too much into it. Truth was, with him next to me, it was easier to take notes and quickly discuss them with him during the meeting. It would only be double the work to look over them again before finally sending them to Dean.

I set up my laptop, notebook, and pen, placing them all neatly on the table while the others all filled the rest of the chairs around the table.

“This will be a long one,” Dean told me quietly, leaning in closer for only me to hear.

“I have all day,” I replied teasingly. It wasn’t my intention to make him laugh, but he did.

Loudly.

Some of the men looked toward us, and Dean muffled his laugh by placing his fist in front of his mouth. Then he cleared his throat, and his expression went back to normal. Serious, with a small frown between his brows.

Halfway through the meeting, while one of the partners went on about numbers and liabilities, Dean leaned in slightly toward me and pointed to a line in the printed agreement in front of us. His shoulder brushed mine. Not on purpose, but he didn’t move away either.

I felt the warmth of him there and my body tensed before I caught myself and leaned slightly to the other side, focusing on the document. “I already noted that,” I murmured, not looking at him.

“Of course you did.” His words were quiet, but there was something else beneath it. Admiration, maybe. Or regret, for not being able to fully show it.

When the meeting ended, we both stood. As we moved toward the door, I accidentally dropped my pen, and Dean was quick to bend down and grab it. He held it to me with a smile, and I took it from his hand, with my fingers brushing his. He didn’t let go of the pen right away, and I didn’t move my hand either.

My eyes met his, and for a brief, unguarded moment, we were just standing there, frozen in the middle of a crowd of exiting attorneys and murmuring clients, like none of it touched us.

Then I gently pulled the pen from his grip, and the moment passed.

“Thanks,” I said, turning toward the door before that small moment settled too deep into my chest.

By noon, I was in desperate need of food and caffeine. I slipped away to the break room, hoping for a few minutes to myself.

I put my leftovers from last night in the microwave and poured myself a cup of coffee, and as I waited for my food to warm up, the door behind me opened. It was Dean. I didn’t have to look over my shoulder to know. I still had that instinct when it came to him, and I could guess his presence in any room we were in. Maybe it was his ridiculously captivating perfume, or it was simply the invisible string still pulling me toward him. Even after hurting me deeply.

“Lunch?” he asked, and I finally turned my head to look at him.

I gave him a nod and a small smile. “The meeting made me hungry. And tired.”

He pursed his lips and stepped closer, casual but not careless. “Yeah, me too. But I only have time for a small snack.” I watched as he walked over to the fridge where he took out a sandwich. It wasn’t homemade, and I recognized the brown wrapping paper with the logo on it. It was from a nearby bakery, which I knew he often went to.

The microwave beeped, and I pulled out the Tupperware container to let it cool for a little while before I dug in.

“What do you have there? Smells amazing.”

I turned back around, not minding this small talk. “A half-eaten burrito and two flautas.”

“Did you make it?”

“No, it’s leftovers from last night’s takeout. I always order more than I can eat so I can bring the rest to work and—” I stopped, reminding myself that, deep down, I was still mad at him. Any normal person would’ve let it all go immediately. But I was resentful, and I knew it was something I still had to work on.

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