Page 49 of Off-Limits as Puck

I nod, not trusting my voice.

“That morning with Dez? Teaching him? It was the first time since Vegas that I felt like myself. Not the enforcer, not the fuck-up, not the guy trying to save his brother. Just... me.”

“Reed—”

“You saw it. I know you did. Through the window. The way you looked at me like maybe I wasn’t just chaos. Like maybe I could be more.”

“You are more,” I whisper. “You’ve always been more. I just—”

“Couldn’t let yourself see it. Because then I’d be real, not just some Vegas mistake you could file away.”

My eyes burn with tears I refuse to shed. “You were never a mistake.”

“No?”

“No. You were the first real thing I’d felt in years. That’s what scared me.”

His hand rests on the arm of his chair, inches from mine. I stare at it, at the scars across his knuckles, the tape on two fingers, the visible history of violence and tenderness.

“Matty’s in rehab,” he says quietly. “I told him no more bailouts. Either he gets help or he’s on his own.”

“That must have been hard.”

“Hardest thing I’ve ever done. But continuing to enable him was killing us both.”

“That’s growth,” I say, my therapy voice mixing with something more personal. “Recognizing patterns and choosing to break them.”

“Is it? Or am I just breaking everything I touch?”

I don’t think. For once in my calculated life, I don’t analyze or plan. I just reach over and cover his hand with mine.

He goes completely still. We both do. The contact is innocent—just skin on skin, palm over scarred knuckles. But it feels liketouching a live wire, electric and dangerous and absolutely right.

“You’re not broken,” I tell him, thumb brushing over a recent cut. “You’re just human. Messy and flawed and trying. Like all of us.”

“Chelsea.” My name comes out rough, pleading.

“I know.” I should pull away. Don’t. “I know we can’t. I know this is impossible. I know everything standing between us.”

“But?”

“But right now, in this room, you’re not my client. You’re just the man who taught a rookie to trust his instincts. Who loves his brother enough to let him fall. Who’s been carrying guilt that isn’t his to carry.”

“And you’re not my therapist,” he says, turning his hand to interlace our fingers. “You’re the woman who ran because feeling was scarier than leaving. Who schedules her life to avoid surprises. Who’s dating someone safe because wanting something real might kill her. Maybe that’s why Vegas felt so right. Two fucked-up people finding each other in the dark.”

I laugh, but it’s watery. “That’s not very romantic.”

“I’m not very romantic. But I’m real. And I’m here. And I’m trying to be better.”

“I see that,” I admit. “I see you trying. It’s...” Beautiful. Heartbreaking. Everything. “It makes this harder.”

“This?”

“Staying away. Being professional. Pretending I don’t—” I stop myself.

“Don’t what?”

But I can’t say it. Can’t admit that I think about him constantly. That Jake’s kisses taste like disappointment.

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