“Becca—”
“Isn’t coming. I texted her.”
“What?”
He shrugs and unfolds his arms, bracing his palms on my counter. Straightening out those strong, muscled arms of his where veins draw maps along his flesh before disappearing into sleeves that are stretched so tight over ridiculous sexy biceps.
His head dips, and one corner of his lips kick up. Oh God. I’m growing flushed with heat from scoping out his body and he’s letting me.
“You don’t think we have anything to talk about?”
I close the dishwasher and rest my backside against it. “Why would we?”
“If we didn’t, why would you tell Becca I was on your list of things not to discuss today?”
Oh. Well, sure. He has a point there.
Klaus, confident and slightly arrogant as always, reaches for the pitcher of mimosas and helps himself to a glass.
“What are you doing?”
“Having a drink. Want one?”
Oh yeah. I think I’m going to need several.
I push off the counter and take the champagne flute he slides across the island to me. We’re separated by three and a half feet of granite and yet my body is buzzing like we’re pressed together. Warm and tingly all over.
He’s caught me off guard and his expression hides everything. He might be here because we have to talk, but there’s not a chance in hell I’m starting the conversation. I have absolutely no desire to hear the last weekend shouldn’t have happened, let’s go back to being just friends speech I’m certain he has in mind.
I take a drink, quickly setting the glass down when I realize my hand is trembling, shaking the contents.
“So, how’s your week been?” Klaus asks. Nonchalance rings in his tone, but the tightness around his eyes hides nothing.
He’s pissed. At me? What in the hell have I done? A question I’m not asking.
Following his lead of pretending we didn’t just blow up into an epic mess, I shrug. “Fine.”
“Because you look like crap, like you haven’t slept in a week.”
Ten days, but who’s counting.
“Geez. Thanks, Klaus. If you’re done insulting me now and hijacking my Saturday, you can show yourself to the door.”
“What happened at the reception that made you cry?”
“What?” His change in topic gives me whiplash.
“At the reception, when I found you leaving the restroom. You were crying.”
Tears of heartbreaking sadness. Hearing him confirm what I’d been terrified of, why I never made my move, and why I never let on how much I cared for him, was a stake to my heart.
“I was tired. I told you that.”
“And then you didn’t speak a word to me the rest of the night, barely three words the next day and you’ve been avoiding me ever since. So I want to know what happened. What made you cry?”
You. The word burns the tip of my tongue. He’s backing me into a corner without having moved a single muscle. I can feel the weight of him, of this moment, threatening to force me to show all my vulnerabilities while he hides his.
No freaking thank you.
“It was an emotional day. I was drinking. That’s all. Why are you asking?”
“Why won’t you answer me honestly?”
“Why do you keep asking me the same question without telling me why you want to know?”
His lips press together and he exhales a slow breath, making his shoulders rise and his chest heave with the force of it. “Has it occurred to you it’s because I know something made you mad that night and what it was has made you avoid me, and because I care about you, I want to help you? To be there for you and fix it if I can.”
We’re friends. Of course we are. What else would we be?
Nothing. Because even now he’s only concerned because he cares about me… as a friend. Why did I let myself forget this?
Shaking my head, I take another drink. “It was nothing, Klaus. Really. As far as avoiding you, I haven’t been. We signed new players last week and I’ve been busy prepping new upcoming signings in New York and Wisconsin.”
“I think you’re forgetting right now how long we’ve been friends, how long we’ve known each other. If you think I believe any of what you’re saying, then maybe you’re also forgetting how well I know you… and that I know you’re a really crappy liar.”
He pushes off the counter and strolls around the island like he has all the time in the world. With every step he takes toward me, my pulse kicks up a notch.
“Do you know what I think?”
I shake my head, mouth suddenly going bone dry. No amount of mimosas or water could hydrate me right now.
“I think,” he continues, stopping when he’s within touching distance, close enough I can smell his cologne. Close enough I can see the pulse beat at the base of his throat and if I wanted—which I most definitely do not—close enough I can reach out and touch it. Touch him. Pull him to me and kiss him. “I think you got mad when I was talking to Adrianna. I think you overheard me saying something that hurt you, and I think that’s why you were crying. The only thing I want to know is, why would me telling Adrianna we’re just friends—which you also said, according to her—hurt you so much to send you running to the restroom with tears in your eyes?”
“We are friends.”
He nods, a slow curl of his lips lift. “I know. And we’ll always be friends, but what happened between us Saturday morning or in the days leading up to wasn’t just friends, was it?”
Of course it wasn’t. Definitely not to me. To me, it was a dream come true. Years of hoping and wishing came to fruition and for one glorious moment, was a reality I didn’t want to end.
“Klaus—”
He lifts his hand and holds it against my cheek. Without thought, I lean into him and close my eyes. I’ve missed his warmth and his strength. “I thought we were more than friends. I thought you understood what I wanted from you. But then I was talking to Adrianna and she said you had told her we were just friends and it hurt, Jilly-Bean. After all that we shared, after we made love Saturday morning, it hurt me to hear that’s how you thought of us still. I only said it to her because of that. I wasn’t telling a friend of yours I’d just met that I cared about you a whole lot more than that.”
“But—”
“And I know that’s why you took off. I know you overheard, at probably the absolute wrong time, and I’m pretty confident that’s why you were crying. All you have to do is admit it and I can make this right, honey. I swear it.”
Oh God. Made love? He said it. We were on the same page after all. He’s telling me what I wanted to hear for so long.
All I have to do is tell him. Tell him I love him. It should be so easy. He’s opened the door, given me the perfect opportunity. I take him in, his pleading expression and those eyes rimmed with golden lashes I love so much and open my mouth to tell him, and stop.
Fear rushes through me, choking me, fear of this getting even worse between us than it was in the last week.
What happens next time? What happens when it doesn’t work?
I’ve barely been able to crawl out of bed and go to work this week.