Or, second, and worst of all... he would find out.
My stomach clenched any time I even thought those words, a sharp, unmistakable surge of bone-deep fear. That anyone, absolutely anyone, on this earth would know what I had been doing.
Let alone that person being Rush himself.
Which was why I had been so careful at work.
I scooted out the door right after he came in, avoiding anyone involving me in conversation, increasing the chances of him recognizing me from our late-night phone calls.
All for nothing, it seemed.
Because I was pretty sure, even after talking to him quite a bit the night before, that he had no idea.
There had been a couple of moments when I thought maybe he was onto me, but once I gave myself space from the conversations to analyze them, I saw that it was just my fear that made me think that.
I mean, I didn't talk a lot on the phone, to be honest.
I gave him short responses when he needed them, but for the most part, I just played to both of our strengths.
He was a good talker.
I was a good listener.
It worked out beautifully.
A lot of time, I didn't even call because I physically wanted to. It had become more of an emotional crutch.
Though, if I were being completely transparent, there had been times.
Of course.
Because Rush knew exactly what to say, when, how to say it.
He turned me to a puddle of need some nights.
And then he took that need away with his words, with the fantasies they conjured, as my hand worked, as he got a different kind of response from my end of the phone.
Sometimes, I went ahead and let myself believe his voice got husky on those nights too, that he was enjoying the sounds of pleasure he was creating.
Then, of course, during my shower afterward, I would remind myself it was a job; I would tell myself I wasn't going to call again, that this was over, that I was going to go back to my normal life.
I said it.
Every single day.
Of every single week.
For the past six months.
For God's sake, I'd called him two nights before the retreat.
And now here I was.
Alone with him.
Not for long, I reminded myself as I grabbed my coffee and book, heading out the back door to go claim my chair before, I imagined, our other coworkers would start showing up. Hopefully before the rain.
I had just curled up under my blanket when I heard a rustling that had me tensing, eyes darting around, wondering if Rush was in hearing distance, if he would rush to the rescue if he heard me scream.
Adrenaline surged through my system, but in the end, it was a little cottontail that came hopping into the clearing, clearly not used to having human intruders, not even looking around for predators, just munching down on a patch of clover, his little nose twitching, his ears flicking around, listening to all the forest sounds.
Then, a crunch. The loud kind.
The kind that had him turning and darting, no questions asked, as my heartbeat tripped into overdrive, as I damn near spilled my coffee all over myself as my body jolted as it turned instinctively toward the noise.
And then I did drop my coffee.
On the ground at my feet.
Because there was Rush freaking Rivers.
Walking up from who-knew-where, naked from the waist up, water dripping down from his dark hair, slipping over his strong shoulders, down his pecs that had seen more than a few push ups and chest presses in their day, then down the dip between his six-pack. My shameless gaze followed the droplet's progress as it shivered over the happy trail then disappeared along with it into the low-slung waistband of his pants.
My gaze stayed there for a long moment. Too long. Obscenely long. Long enough that he likely knew exactly what my mind was thinking about.
My head whipped up.
"Are... aren't you... um cold?" I asked, feeling a shiver work through me, but only I knew it wasn't a cold shiver, but, rather, a hot one.
"Fucking freezing," he admitted, giving me one of those easy smiles I came to know him for, shaking his head at himself. "Got this wild hair to explore the woods this morning. And some stupid fucking part of me saw the lake and thought it would be refreshing," he said, rolling his eyes as I unfolded from my chair, walking toward him without giving the action any thought at all beforehand.
"Here," I said, pulling the blanket off my shoulders, reaching to wrap it around him.
His eyes went soft a that, his head tilting to the side a bit as he grabbed it to pull it fully around him.
"Thanks, baby. I will trade you one of the extras from my room. Dry."
"No, that's alright. Just toss that one back in my room when you're done with it," I said, then felt myself wincing, wondering if he was reading into that, sussing out what I meant.
That it might smell like him.
That I was just needy enough to want to find out.
God, I needed to get back to Navesink Bank, schedule an appointment, and come clean about all of this to my therapist. This couldn't be normal, or healthy, behavior.
Maybe she could help wean me off my dependence to him.
A Rush Rivers Recovery program, of sorts.
"Anyone else show up yet?" he asked as I fetched my coffee and book, following him back toward the cabin.
"No. I'm starting to worry about them."
"If it eases your mind at all, Katie, there's no way they could all be stranded somewhere or anything like that. We didn't end up on the same plane. None of them likely did either. Or maybe more than anticipated had some kind of excuses not to be here."
"You're not worried about Fiona?" I asked, knowing she was practically like an in-law to him.
"She's got a whole tribe of people to fall back on if she needed it. But I don't think she does. I think there was some sort of mix up. Maybe we both got the date or time wrong or some shit. It was all so last minute."
"That's true," I agreed.
"I'm gonna go get this chill out of my bones. Then maybe we can find something to eat."
"I, ah, I can make something," I offered.
"Yeah?" he asked, turning back, eyes bright.
It was such a cliché, that thing about men and their hearts and their stomachs. But I'd yet to see it be wrong.
"Yeah," I agreed, my lips curving up. "What do you think of crêpes?"
"Sounds like you just offered to make all my breakfasts from now until we leave here I think," he told me, eyes dancing, and my heart did an embarrassing little shimmy at the sight. "I'll be down in ten. Not to help," he added, shaking his head. "Just to watch. Give completely unhelpful commentary. That kind of shit."
"Looking forward to it," I said, getting a wink from him before he was off.
"Oooh, boy," I sighed when I was alone, planting my hands on the cool counter, taking a couple of deep breaths, reminding myself that this was just how Rush was.
He was charming. And playful. And boyish. And effortlessly sexy.
It wasn't personal.
It was never personal.
I was just the woman with the crêpes to a man with an empty stomach.
Nothing more, nothing less.
No matter how much I might have wanted it to be more.
And how sad that was.
To put my mind off those negative thoughts I was so known for, I gathered my ingredients, giving each step a careful consideration I hadn't needed to do for decades, not since my grandmother first taught me the recipe. This would be the first, and likely the last, chance I would get to cook for him. And I wanted it to be good. Maybe he would remember me as something other than the mumbling, bumbling, uncomfortable office mouse.