Chapter 5

　　BELLA

　　The office lights dimmed automatically after eight.

　　Most people had gone home hours ago, laughing about happy hour plans, complaining about traffic, wishing each other good weekends even though it was only Thursday.

　　But Alex and I were still here.

　　The Thompson campaign deadline loomed like a storm cloud.

　　We'd been at it since lunch revising copy, tweaking visuals, arguing over font sizes that probably didn't matter as much as we pretended.

　　The open-plan floor felt huge and empty now.

　　Just the hum of the air conditioning, the soft glow from our two screens, and the occasional ping of an email neither of us bothered to check.

　　I stretched my arms above my head, neck stiff. "I think my eyes are going to fall out."

　　Alex glanced over, the blue light from his monitor catching the silver in his hair. "We're almost there. One more round of feedback from the client, then we can call it."

　　I nodded, but I didn't believe him. We'd said "one more round" three times already.

　　He pushed back from his desk. "Let's take five. Coffee?"

　　"God, yes."

　　We walked to the break room together.

　　The hallway lights were motion-sensor dim, flickering on as we passed.

　　Our footsteps echoed. It felt strangely intimate like the building belonged to us alone.

　　In the break room, he started the espresso machine while I leaned against the counter, watching him.

　　The way his shoulders moved under his dress shirt.

　　The way he rolled his sleeves higher when he was focused. Small things I shouldn't have been cataloging.

　　He handed me a mug. Black, no sugar just how I liked it.

　　"Thanks," I said softly.

　　He leaned beside me, close enough that our elbows almost touched. We sipped in silence for a minute.

　　"You're good at this," he said suddenly. "Really good. The client's going to eat up that new tagline you came up with."

　　Heat crept up my neck. "It was a team effort."

　　"No. It was you." His voice was quiet.

　　I looked at him then. Really looked.

　　His eyes were on my face steady, like they had been all week. But tonight there was something else there. Something unguarded.

　　My heart started pounding.

　　I set my mug down.

　　The break room felt smaller. The hum of the fridge is louder.

　　I took a half-step closer.

　　He didn't move away.

　　"Alex…" My voice came out softer than I meant.

　　He swallowed. Adam's apple bobbed. "Bella."

　　I lifted my hand slowly. Placed it on his forearm. His skin was warm through the rolled sleeve. I felt the muscle tension under my fingers.

　　He didn't pull back.

　　That was all the permission my body needed.

　　I rose on my toes and kissed him.

　　Soft at first just brushing my lips. Testing. Asking.

　　For one perfect second he kissed me back.

　　His mouth moved against mine gentle, hesitant, like he couldn't believe it was happening.

　　Then his hand came up to my waist.

　　My stomach flipped.

　　But the next second he froze.

　　He pulled back so fast I almost stumbled.

　　"No." His voice was rough. Sharp. "We can't."

　　I blinked. The air rushed out of me.

　　"What?

　　He stepped back. Put space between us. His hand dropped from my waist like it burned.

　　"We can't do this, Bella."

　　I stared at him. My lips still tingled from the kiss. My heart was hammering so hard it hurt.

　　"But you.." I started.

　　"I know." He ran a hand through his hair. looked away. "I know what just happened. But it can't happen again."

　　"Why?" The word came out small. Pathetic.

　　He met my eyes then. His were stormy. Guilty. "You know why."

　　I shook my head. "Tell me."

　　He exhaled hard. "You're Robert's daughter. My best friend's daughter. My business partner's daughter. And I'm.. " He stopped. Swallowed again. "I'm old enough to know better."

　　"You're not that old."

　　"I'm forty, Bella. You're twenty-five. There's a list of reasons this is wrong longer than that deadline we're chasing."

　　I wrapped my arms around myself. Suddenly cold. "You kissed me back."

　　He closed his eyes for a second. "I shouldn't have."

　　The rejection hit like a slap.

　　I felt my throat close up. My eyes stung.

　　All week the glances, the brushes, the way he'd lingered when our shoulders touched, the way his voice dropped when he said my name I hadn't imagined it. Had I?

　　Or had I just seen what I wanted to see?

　　I took a shaky step back. "I'm sorry. I thought.. "

　　"Don't." He cut me off. Gentle, but firm. "Don't apologize. This is on me. I should've kept more distance. I should've.."

　　"Stop." My voice cracked. "Just… stop."

　　He went quiet.

　　The espresso machine hissed, finishing its cycle. The sound felt too loud in the silence.

　　I turned away. Picked up my mug with shaking hands. The coffee had gone cold.

　　"I'm going back to my desk," I said. My voice sounded flat. Distant.

　　"Bella.."

　　"I need to finish the revisions."

　　I walked out without looking at him.

　　He didn't follow.

　　Back at my desk, I sat down. Stared at the screen. The words blurred.

　　I could still taste him on my lips.

　　I could still feel where his hand had been on my waist.

　　And now I feel stupid.

　　Humiliated.

　　Had I really thought he'd just… give in? That all those charged moments meant he wanted this as badly as I did?

　　Maybe he didn't.

　　Maybe the tension was just in my head. Wishful thinking. A crush I'd never quite grown out of.

　　I pressed my palms to my eyes. Hard.

　　Don't cry. Not here. Not now.

　　I heard his footsteps a minute later. Slow. Hesitant.

　　He sat in his chair. Didn't speak.

　　We worked in silence.

　　No more small talk. No more compliments. No more accidental touches.

　　Just the click of keyboards and the occasional sigh.

　　Every few minutes I stole a glance at him.

　　His jaw was tight. His shoulders rigid. He stared at his screen like it had personally offended him.

　　He looked miserable.

　　Good, a small, angry part of me thought.

　　But mostly I just felt hollow.

　　Around eleven-thirty he finally spoke.

　　"We should call it. Pick up tomorrow."

　　I nodded without looking at him. "Yeah."

　　We shut down our computers. Packed our things. We walked to the elevator together.

　　The ride down was silent.

　　When the doors opened in the lobby, he held them for me.

　　I stepped out.

　　He followed.

　　Outside, the Seattle night was cool and damp. Streetlights reflected off wet pavement.

　　I started toward the parking garage.

　　"Bella."

　　I stopped. Didn't turn.

　　He stepped closer. Not touching. Just close enough that I felt his presence behind me.

　　"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "For letting it get this far. For not shutting it down sooner."

　　I closed my eyes. Took a breath.

　　"I'm sorry too," I whispered.

　　Then I walked away.

　　He didn't follow.

　　I got in my car. Started the engine. I sat there for a long minute with my forehead on the steering wheel.

　　Tears came then. Quiet ones. Hot and fast.

　　I wiped them away with the back of my hand.

　　Tomorrow I'd have to see him again.

　　Sit next to him again.

　　Pretend none of this happened.

　　Pretend I hadn't just kissed my father's best friend and been shut down so hard it felt like a door slamming in my face.

　　I drove home through the rain-slick streets.

　　And all I could think was:

　　Maybe I had imagined it.

　　Maybe the looks, the tension, the almost-moments they were all one-sided.

　　And that hurt worse than the rejection itself.