Page 86 of Here & There

I frown.

“Trust me.”

In the thirty seconds it takes me to rearrange the chairs, she’s back, with Chip in tow.

Chip’s pushing a big-ass whiteboard on wheels into my cramped office, smashing into my bookshelves before I’m able to get there to help him out.

“Where the hell have you been hiding this?” I ask.

“You have the other stuff?” Shelby asks, ignoring me.

Chip reaches into his apron and pulls out a box of colorful whiteboard markers, along with a couple of notepads, pens, and what looks like a roll of stickers.

“Thank you, love!” Shelby says.

Jealousy flickers through me at the easy way the endearment comes out of her mouth. I force myself to keep my expression neutral, nodding at Chip as he walks out. Chip’s my buddy. None of this is his fault.

Still, I grumble, “Thanks for your help,” and practically slam the door behind him.

I’ll apologize later.

“Okay, Mac,” Shelby says, setting the items on the desk behind me. “Why don’t you take a seat, and we’ll get started?”

I do as I’m told, trying to ignore the sexy teacher-student dynamic happening here. She uncaps a whiteboard marker and asks me to name all my biggest, wildest hopes for not just my restaurant, but my life.

“Just so you know,” Shelby says, “I’m going to get a little personal at times today. If you want to stop at any time, just let me know, okay?”

I know this is probably standard for her in these meetings, but she does this a lot—checks in on me to make sure I’m okay before continuing with something. Nobody else does. They see a big dude with a beard and the smallest bit of authority, and they assume I’m always in control, that I’ve got everything handled.

But she sees through it all.

“Most importantly,” she says, “I have a request for you.”

“Okay,” I say, knowing I’d freely give her the shirt off my back if she asked for it.

“Don’t hold back.”

I blink. “Okay?”

“I mean it, Mac.” Her eyes shift sideways. “It’s something I do, sometimes, and I know how much it holds me back creatively. It feels safe to hold back. To not throw out every thought or idea. To not tell people exactly what I think. I’m scared of them judging me, even if they don’t say anything.” She laughs, even though it’s not really funny. She’s so hard on herself. “I do it everywhere.” Then she gives her head a little shake. “But Mac.” She meets my eyes again. “I won’t judge you, not for anything.”

My chest tightens. I don’t know if she’s talking about today. She wasn’t a moment ago. I know it.

“I won’t either, Shelby.”

Her throat bobs as she swallows.

I want to touch her there. To feel her pulse, to soothe her pain. But I grip my hands tightly at my sides, my eyes on hers. “I’m all yours.”

Several hours later, the whiteboard is covered in scrawled words and emphatic streaks and circles.

We went over the notes she took during the week and did “visioning of the future.” Surprisingly, the actual work part wasn’t as painful as I feared, even though I went a little cross-eyed when she started saying things like “Gantt chart” and “mood wheels.”

Finally, she agrees it’s time for a break, and we sink into the two chairs side by side.

“That was amazing,” she says. She’s in her shirtsleeves, her blazer tossed on the back of her chair. There’s a light sheen of sweat on her skin, giving her a glowing, dewy quality.

There’s something about seeing someone in their element that always amazes me. But seeingherin her element? It has me wanting to stare at her with a kind of awe.

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