“Careful, Emma. If you keep saying those kinds of things, I might start to think this is might be real.”

“It’s not. It’s fake. So fake.”

“Then why does it feel so fucking right?”

I’m in so much trouble. My carefully laid plans have been tossed out the window, discarded and unremembered, along with the rules I abide by. I don’t want to leave and walk away… but I need to. I have to. Extracting myself from the situation in this kitchen, putting the blinders on, and recalling what my job is has to take priority over whatever lust I’m experiencing.

My job isn’t to fall in love with Henry Dawson and his swoony soliloquies, devastating looks, and hysterical, witty conversation starters. It’s to get through a weekend with him as a paid helper. A role. As much as I want to entertain the idea of more, it’s overwhelming. Implausible. It hurts to say the next words, but I do. They’re necessary. It’s for the best.

“I should go.”

Rejection overtakes him. His smile falls. His eyes dart away, attention focusing out the windows. He nods, running his hand through his hair as a muscle in his jaw ticks, holding back words he doesn’t speak, no matter how badly I want to hear them.

“Right. Yeah. It’s getting late. Let me get some cookies for you to take home.”

Shuffling away, he pulls out a Ziploc bag, shoving almost half our hard work into the plastic and handing it to me.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“I’ll pick you up at 1 p.m. on Wednesday. Does that work?”

“That’s perfect. I’ll send you my address.”

“Cool.”

“Good night, Henry. I had a great time.” I reach out, bravely hugging his middle when I know I shouldn’t, my cheek resting on his chest. His arms circle around my waist, one hand moving to my hair and stroking through the blonde locks twice. His heart is a metronome in my ears, racing as fast as mine.

“So did I,” he says gruffly. He untangles us, pulling away and stepping back. “Will you let me know when you get home?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “I will.”

“Good night, Emma.”

I force myself to leave, force myself to trudge through the door, force myself to let it slam close behind me, mirroring the shift in my mood, tumbling from the highest high to a lowly low. As I head for the elevator, my chest constricts like it’s been the patient to a defibrillator, an electric charge from every inch Henry touched me running through my veins. My hair. My waist. My fingers. My mouth.

My heart.

While I ride the elevator down, I try to ignore the passion that resided behind his eyes. It was ferocious. Tender. Kind. Aroused. Confused. Knowing.

It was all for me.