Too intimate.
She had one arm around his shoulders.
Her head rested near his neck.
He could feel the warmth of her through his rain-damp shirt.
Halfway up, she lifted her face.
“Single Dad.”
“Yes.”
Her fingers touched his open collar.
“Why do you always look at me like you want to argue?”
“Usually because I want to argue.”
“Only that?”
The question stopped him.
She moved her fingertips against his chest.
Slowly.
Not enough to be explicit.
Enough.
The Single Dad caught her wrist.
The CEO looked directly at him.
“You felt that.”
He exhaled.
“Yes.”
Her eyes softened.
“Then stop pretending.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“Good.”
He lowered her hand.
“But nothing happens tonight.”
Her expression changed.
“You don’t want me?”
He stared.
“That isn’t the question.”
“What is?”
“Whether sober you wants the same thing.”
The elevator chimed.
Doors opened.
The Single Dad carried her into the penthouse.
It was enormous.
Glass walls.
City skyline.
Museum-quality furniture.
Too clean.
Too quiet.
The place felt like nobody truly lived there.
He found the bedroom.
Set her carefully on the edge of the mattress.
Brought water.
Placed a wastebasket nearby.
Found pain reliever but did not give it to her because he did not know what else she had consumed.
He removed only the heel she still wore after asking.
Then stepped away.
The CEO watched him.
“Stay.”
He stopped.
“No.”
“Five minutes.”
“I’ll wait in the living room until you’re asleep.”
Her expression fell.
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“I know.”
She stood too quickly.
The room tilted.
The Single Dad caught her.
Again her hands went to his chest.
Again they were close.
Her voice lowered.
“What if I mean it tomorrow?”
He looked into her eyes.
“Then ask tomorrow.”
“What if I’m too embarrassed?”
“Then that’s your answer.”
Her lips parted slightly.
He continued.
“I’m not taking something from you tonight that sober you might feel trapped by tomorrow.”
For once, she had no reply.
Her forehead rested against his chest.
He let it.
Nothing more.
After a long moment, she whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Everything.”
The Single Dad looked toward the dark windows.
“That’s too big for tonight.”
She nodded against him.
Then returned to bed.
He waited in the living room until her breathing became steady.
Before leaving, he wrote his phone number on a notepad even though she already had it.
Below it:
Drink water. Call if you feel sick. Do not drive.
Then he went home.
His Daughter was asleep on the couch.
The movie credits had ended hours ago.
His sister sat nearby reading.
She looked up.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing happened?”
He gave her a look.
His sister smiled.
“I had to ask.”
He lifted his Daughter carefully.