Not my arm. My tie.
Which brought her face approximately four inches from mine.
Her breath: mint and Bulleit. Her hand: flat on my sternum, fingers spread. Her expression: the look of someone who has surprised herself more than the other person in the room.
“Your heart is racing,” she said quietly.
“It’s trying to escape this conversation.”
“Liar.”
I could have made a joke. I had three ready. But there was something exposed in her face — something that looked less like my rival and more like a person who had been performing competence so long she’d forgotten what it felt like to be tired in front of someone who wouldn’t use it against her.
So I put my hand over hers and said, “Come on. I’m taking you home.”
Her spine straightened on reflex. “I don’t need rescuing.”
“I know. You need an Uber before you get Thomas’s cologne guy served with a cease-and-desist.”
