Page 15 of Here & There

With all my might, I wrestle my brain back to itself. He’s just a person under that huge, gorgeous, panty-liquifying?—

My throat threatens to constrict when I meet those blue eyes again. That is, until some small part of me—a big part, actually—jumps in front of me and shakes my shoulders.

You don’t get distracted by handsome men! You are a high-powered CEO! A boss! A confident woman who needs to pretend she’s cold to protect her dignity!

I step into the open cardigan.

“Thank you,” I say, chin up. “I’ll find a way to get this back to you shortly.”

Mac lowers the sweater, letting it rest on my shoulders.

It’s heavy. Like, astonishingly heavy. I nearly sink down under its weight. But the most miraculous thing happens: the sweater chills me the fuck out. I remember myself. I guess this is why people get weighted blankets.

“Better?” Mac asks.

“Better.” I smile. I really am. I’m able to meet his eyes without falling apart.

Mac reaches past me for my empty mug and plate, and besides the eyeful of inner forearm, smooth and thick and marked with a tattoo I can’t quite read, I get a new scent: woodsmoke.

Something unfurls inside me. He’s a small-town wet dream. But I can think that objectively.

“He must be wondering where you are,” Mac says.

“Who?”

“Your boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Heat flames my cheeks. “No. I mean, maybe.” Just not in the way a normal person would. Mac thinks my boyfriend is pacing the rug at home, anxious about where I am and if I’mokay. Really, we live separately even after five years of dating, and he’s probably already down at the coffee shop flashing his designer-casual boating outfit at the coffee shop girl.

Mac frowns. Is he waiting for me to say more? Is he worried? He looks like he wants to ask me something.

“Did you have a question?”

I swear I see a tinge of pink rise up from his beard. Or maybe I’m just staring too hard at that square jaw. Objectively.

“No.” He sets the dishes in the dishwasher. Then he turns around. “Yes. Why did you jump into the water?”

I sit back down on the stool. Partly because the sweater’s so heavy on my shoulders. But mostly because I don’t exactly know what to tell him. “It’s…complicated.”

“It’s fine.” He looks like he’s admonishing himself. “Just…are you okay?”

“Like, did I toss myself into the water?”

He doesn’t smile, and I feel immediately callous at cracking a joke like that.

Then, to my surprise, my throat prickles. What if I did?

Mac doesn’t look away.

“No. I mean, yes, I’m okay. Sort of. As much as any of us areokay.” I use air quotes there and instantly regret it. “I’m fine. I just…well…” I trail off.

“I don’t need your story,” Mac says, not unkindly. “Unless you want to tell it. Or unless you need help with…something that happened out there.”

A muscle in his jaw feathers when he says that last part, and I realize he’s been holding on to this. Some concern that something bad caused me to jump into the water. I remember vaguely talking about this before, when we were on the beach. Maybe. But I don’t think I was making much sense then.

“Oh. No, it’s nothing like that,” I say quickly, touched that not only did he express concern for my wellbeing, but that this total stranger would want to defend my honor.

He studies me for a moment, as if trying to determine if I’m telling the truth.

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