It Started with a Kiss

His heart beats strong in his chest under my hand, and I’m sure he can feel my heart racing as well. I’m so close, so close to telling him my deepest secret. “I—”

“We’re going to miss our reservation if we don’t leave, Ms. Marché,” Mr. Casteleone calls from the living room.

I squeeze my eyes shut and release a breath. “I’m sorry.”

Catching me by the hand, he says, “Wait.”

Turning back, I feel the moment slipping out from under us. “Yes?”

Our eyes stay locked on each other’s as if we’re both waiting for the other to say something first. I take a stuttering breath, and then say, “I need to go.”

He straightens his shoulders and releases my hand. “Have a good night.”

I nod, looking back once more before I round the corner into the hallway. Plastering on that fake smile I learned in LA, I say, “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

Mr. Casteleone says, “I hear this restaurant has a yearlong waiting list.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the same. It’s amazing you got a reservation.” I grab my clutch from the entry table and lead him to the door.

“Connections get you everywhere in this world.”

Opening the door, I look back again, my mind still on Jackson and leaving him after such an unfortunate conversation. Those three words, words I’ve never said to another man I’m dating, were on the tip of my tongue.

I hate that this moment was stolen from us. My chest aches to return to him.

There’s no sign of Jackson, but I’m not sure how to make this better anyway. He meets with women in business. I can’t tell him not to, even if I wanted. He goes to dinners, has lunches, even meets over coffee. This is no different, so I’m not sure why he’s upset.

It doesn’t take away that I’ve hurt him or, at a minimum, left him upset. I don’t want to do that. Not to him.

My head wars with my heart.

It took four months, endless emails, and countless calls to score this meeting. I need to keep my mind focused on this exhibit. I’ve worked so hard to get here. Mr. Casteleone can make or break my career. Am I willing to risk it all over a misunderstanding?

While we wait for the elevator to arrive, I look back once more at the closed door. Tapping my foot, I need to clear up something. “I thought we were meeting at the restaurant?”

“I thought we could take care of business first in the car. I’d rather enjoy the company of a beautiful woman over dinner than ruin it with business.”

My stomach drops.

The elevator door opens, and he waits for me to get on. I step forward and turn to face the hallway. That feeling in my stomach grows, dampening all the hope I felt before learning of his intentions. He steps in, and when he’s too close for comfort, I know Jackson was right.

I step off the elevator and turn to face him. Just as the door starts to close, I say, “I can’t have dinner with you.”

“Wait.” He reaches for the button, but it’s too late. And it feels like more than an elevator door opening and closing. What am I doing? This could be career-ending.

He’s a key player in the art world, and I just stood him up for dinner. But I can’t leave the way things were left with Jackson. That could be heart-ending.

I rush back down the hall with my flood of giddiness and hope rolled up in one and unlock the door. He’s not there to greet me physically or even with a hello. Flipping off my heels to move faster, I hurry down the hall to find him sitting in his chair with headphones on.

The scent of his cologne and a long day has me finding a little peace in the chaos, and I inhale, dragging him into my lungs in hopes of breathing easier again.

Since his back is to me, I spin his chair around, grabbing hold of the arms and stopping him when he’s facing me. His hands are fast, but he lowers them when he sees it’s me. “What are you doing?”

“I love you,” I blurt like a feral cat, knowing full well I have no clue what that even means. “I love you,” I repeat, much softer this time.

His brows pinch together, forming a line between them. “What?” Pointing at his headphones, he adds, “Noise-canceling.” He lifts them off and sets them on the desk when he stands. “What are you doing here, Marlow?”

“I’ve lost control because of you, self-sabotaging thoughts telling me not to do this, but I need to. I have to—”

“Have to what?”

“I love you, Jackson.”

Nothing.

I hear nothing in response to pouring my heart out to this man. Did I make a mistake? Seconds feel like torturous minutes. I can’t take the silence any longer. “I know it’s too soon to admit—"