I inch upwards, brushing my nose against his as my free hand trails up the middle of his shirt. A button rubs against the flat of my hand, feeling cold and out of place against my skin. Our lips touch but only barely, that half second before a kiss when you decide to fall over the edge or step back to safety. I’m ready to fall, fall, fall when Ryan drops my hand and moves away.

“I’m sorry,” he sputters. His breathing is accelerated but he’s quick to control it. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

I nod, opting to not voice a response.

“I should go. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t hesitate before turning around and walking away, not bothering to wait for the doorman as he swings the door open himself. He disappears into the lobby, and my hand, the one he just held, falls lifelessly to my side.

I’m in a haze as I walk home. I can’t believe how weak I was. After I swore to treat this like a work interaction, I almost let him kiss me. I almost kissed him. I’m beyond disappointed in myself as I try to figure out where I went wrong. I’m still a disgruntled mess when I get to my apartment. I lock the door behind me and unbutton my jeans, breathing comfortably for the first time in hours.

My laptop is sitting on my desk, parallel to the door. I can feel a flurry of words racing through my head, looking for a way out. I cross the room in several determined strides and flip it open. The screen illuminates the space around me as I pull my chair back and sit down. My latest document appears and I begin typing at a furious pace.

“And where is young George dashing off to so eagerly?”

Charlotte suppressed a gasp as Robert stepped beside her on the stone patio. He had been a guest at Greenspeak Park for a week now at the invitation of her father, Lord Destonbury. She should be used to his presence at this point, but something about Robert always kept her feeling out of step.

Turning away to watch her brother scurry into the gardens, Charlotte smoothed out the nonexistent wrinkles from her lilac morning dress. “George is hunting for a yellow primrose. Or pirates. Whichever he comes across first.” Robert chuckled gently beside her as she went on, “I like to come up with little tasks to distract him.”

“What does a nine-year-old boy need distracting from?”

“From thinking of our mother, mainly.” Charlotte instantly regretted her words. She never shared her grief. Not with anyone.

“I’m sorry,” Robert soon said, a serious tone lining his velvety, deep voice. “George is very lucky to have you. I lost my mother at a young age as well and I would have loved to have had an older sister or brother to look up to.”