* * *
Shane rubbed his eyes, but the computer screen stayed blurry. He leaned back in his chair and scrubbed a hand over his face. Maybe he’d been putting in too much computer time this week after all. In order to avoid his assistant—his incredibly sexy, distracting, kissable assistant—he’d been e-mailing her across the hall rather than walking the ten yards to speak with her in person.
You’re being ridiculous.
True. But he was also being practical. If she knew the wayward direction of his thoughts, she’d make a suggestion involving a bridge and a flying leap. And he wasn’t about to bring up the comment he’d thrown at her feet like a gauntlet. He thought he was playing it cool by suggesting she be the first to break their friendship pact.
Why hadn’t he just winked and pointed his finger like a gun while saying, Ball in your court, babe? What was he thinking, trying to pull off that Pierce Brosnan crap? He should have kissed her or not, and left it at that.
If Crickitt noticed his reclusive behavior, it was news to him. While he didn’t want her to feel pressured or awkward, her disinterest was making his ego sting. How could she be unaffected while he tried—and failed—to think of anything but her?
Then again, maybe she was struggling. There was a moment earlier in the week when he’d leaned on the door frame of her office, and while he’d given her an update on the Townsend account she’d given him a generous eye-sweep from head to toe. It was difficult, but he’d managed not to smile. And then there was yesterday. In the break room, he poured her a cup of coffee, teasing her about her unusual penchant for soy milk and whipped cream. She couldn’t meet his eye, twirling one short curl around her finger while studying her filling mug.
A few more weeks of intense office flirting and they’d both spontaneously combust under the pressure. And, for a change, he was all for it.
Opting to talk to Crickitt in person rather than finish the e-mail he’d started drafting, he stood from his desk. Then he steeled himself with a breath and opened his office door. The lobby to the right was dark, Keena’s desk abandoned. Not that he’d expected to find her there. No one stayed late on Friday evening, save for him. And Crickitt. He could hear her shuffling papers in her brightly lit office.
He strode through her open door to find her in her chair, bent over a bottom drawer. Taking advantage of the curls that hid her face, he admired the curve of her thighs and bottom as she sat rummaging through the files.
“Milking the clock?” he asked. “Just so you know you’re not going to get any overtime out of…”
The words died in his throat when she lifted her head. Her eyes were puffy, her nose red, her face tear-streaked. In two steps he rounded her desk and knelt next to her chair.
“Crickitt, what happened? Are you hurt?” In a panic, he reached for her shoulders, searching for signs of injury even as he reminded himself she couldn’t have suffered anything more serious than a paper cut.
“You could say that,” she said, her voice choked with tears. She rubbed her fingers under the hollows of her eyes and sniffed, looking everywhere but at him. “I had…an unwelcome phone call.”
“From your ex-husband,” Shane guessed.
Crickitt gave him a searching look. “Yeah.”
That one word was full of longing. Desperate for camaraderie. And he’d gone and kicked open the door, practically inviting her to talk to him about it.
Shane released her shoulders and stood too quickly, causing his head to swim. Oh, how he wished it had been a paper cut. Then he could leave in search of a Band-Aid and escape the emotions pressing down on him from every angle. He was ill equipped to handle his own personal issues, let alone help with hers. He should leave. For both their sakes.
“I’m sorry to barge in,” he started, shooting a longing glance at the doorway. Crickitt wiped her hands over her face, looking small and alone. And just like the night he spotted her in the club and felt the pull to comfort her, he couldn’t walk away.
Settling awkwardly on the corner of her desk, he plucked a tissue from the box next to him. When she accepted it, he offered her another, not sure what else to do. He reached for a third and she waved him off.
He should say something. But what? Your ex is a jerk? I’m sorry? Everything will be okay? Shane drummed his fingers on his knees, his thoughts racing. He couldn’t write a check to solve this problem, and, frankly, he wasn’t sure if anything he said or did might make it better.
Crickitt stilled his jittering hands with her palms. “Don’t feel like you have to stay, Shane. I’ll be fine.” Her words were strong, but her voice was wobbly. “I just”—she looked around the room, lost—“need to go.” She tossed the tissues into her wastebasket, gathered a few files into a stack. “I need to get home,” she muttered again, rising from her chair.