“Henry, it wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was, and I’ve been kicking myself for it ever since I left your house.”

“Please don’t.” I set my coffee cup on the table in front of me and scooted closer to him. I put a hand on his arm—his skin was warm. “It’s okay. You don’t need to be sorry. I’m not.”

“You’re not?”

“No.” I sat back. “Do you know how long it’s been since someone kissed me that way?”

He shook his head, almost looking frightened to know the answer.

“A really long time. And it felt good. So good I didn’t want it to end.” For a split second, I almost thought he was going to smile.

“I still shouldn’t have done it.” The frown was unyielding. “I work for your family. You’re going through a rough time. I don’t know what I want.”

“Because it’s too soon to know that, Henry.” I sat back, placing my hands in my lap. “You and I, we’re still healing. And that’s okay. But for me, part of that healing process means learning to feel good in my skin again. You made me feel beautiful and sexy and desirable.”

“You are all of those things,” he said quickly.

I smiled, warmth humming beneath my skin. “You are too.”

He gave me a look like he was in pain. “Jesus Christ, Sylvia. You shouldn’t say that stuff to me.”

“Why not?”

“Because it puts ideas in my head.”

“Ideas aren’t going to hurt us. And I trust you to behave.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t do that either.”

“I can’t help it.” I smiled, in spite of everything. “You know I tend to trust everyone. And if you turn out to be a giant asshole, I’ll be mad. But my heart is telling me you are not that guy.”

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, messing his hair. “I’m not that guy. I just . . . lost control temporarily. But like I said, it won’t happen again.”

“But we can still be friends, right?”

“I guess so.” He didn’t look entirely sure.

“I hope so, Henry.” I leaned forward again, placing my hand on his leg this time. “Because I could use a friend like you.”

His eyes were on my hand. “Okay, but you really have to stop touching me.”

I laughed and took my hand off him. “I can do that.”

“And don’t wear that red dress around me again.”

“Deal.”

“And maybe not that perfume either.” He inhaled a shuddering breath. “It smells too fucking good.”

I held up both hands, palms toward him. “I will keep my hands to myself, wear only rags, and stick to unscented soap. Does that work?” But my toes were tingling—he liked my dress! He liked my perfume! He was tempted when I touched him!