Chapter 154 THE WRONG CONCLUSIONS - 37

Chapter 154 THE WRONG CONCLUSIONS - 37
VIVIENNE

Two beds.

It wasn't ideal.

It also wasn't the end of the world, and somewhere between everyone making entirely too much of it downstairs and me carrying my overnight bag up the stairs, I'd decided I wasn't going to contribute to the drama. We were adults. We'd worked together for months, survived boardrooms full of difficult people, shared cars, shared deadlines, shared enough late nights over audit reports that the idea of sleeping in the same room, on separate beds that were a perfectly respectable distance apart, really shouldn't have been the thing that undid us.

It only became awkward when I actually walked in.

The room wasn't tiny, but it wasn't exactly spacious either. There was just enough room for the two narrow beds, a bedside table squeezed between them, a wardrobe that had probably been here longer than the house itself, and a window overlooking nothing but trees. Someone had left the curtains half open, so moonlight spilled across the floorboards in pale strips, making everything softer than it had any right to be.

Cole set his bag down first.

"I think Jordan described this as luxury accommodation."

I looked around.

"I've seen prison documentaries with more floor space."

He laughed.

"I was trying to be optimistic."

"I noticed."

There was a comfortable pause while we unpacked the bare minimum.

I pulled a jumper from my bag and folded tomorrow's clothes over the back of a chair. He plugged in his phone charger, frowned at the extension lead as though it had personally offended him, then quietly handed me the free socket without saying anything.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

The silence settled again, though it wasn't the horrible kind I'd been bracing myself for on the drive over. It was simply the silence of two people sharing a room who hadn't quite figured out what happened after the practicalities were done.

Eventually I disappeared into the bathroom to change.

When I came back, he'd already changed into an old navy T-shirt and grey joggers, and was sitting cross-legged on one bed with a paperback open in front of him.

He looked up.

"Bathroom's free."

"Good. I was worried I'd have to negotiate for it."

"I would've considered trades."

"What, visitation rights?"

"Custody arrangement. Alternate evenings."

I smiled despite myself.

"I'll have my solicitor call yours."

"I've heard she's terrifying."

"She is."

"I believe it."

I climbed into bed with the novel I'd packed and opened it somewhere near the middle, only to realise after several minutes that I'd read the same paragraph often enough to memorise it without absorbing a single word.

Across the room he turned a page.

Outside, the trees shifted quietly in the wind.

Somebody downstairs laughed. It sounded like Jordan.

I glanced up.

He was still reading.

Or pretending to.

After another minute he sighed and lowered the book onto his lap.

"I've got a question."

I looked over.

"That sounds ominous."

"It isn't."

"You hesitated."

"I was deciding whether it was worth asking."

"And?"

"I've committed now."

"Go on."

His mouth twitched.

"Does Marcus actually know how to cook?"

I blinked.

"What?"

"Earlier, when he was insisting he'd made that pasta from scratch."

"Oh."

I laughed before I could stop myself.

"No."

"No?"

"He once told Maya he'd made homemade pesto."

"And?"

"He'd emptied a jar into a nicer bowl."

Cole laughed, properly this time.

"That's somehow exactly what I imagined."

"He also burns garlic bread with alarming consistency."

"I knew there was a reason I didn't trust him around ovens."

"He insists every recipe exaggerates cooking times."

"That's... incredibly confident."

"It's incredibly smoky."

He rubbed a hand across his face, still smiling.

"I spent the whole dinner wondering whether I was being unfair."

"You were being generous."

"I appreciate the confirmation."

The conversation should probably have ended there.

It would've made sense if it had.

Instead it drifted naturally into other things, the way conversations sometimes do when it's late enough that nobody feels particularly interested in pretending they're finished talking.

We somehow ended up discussing Jordan's impossible ability to find snacks in places snacks shouldn't exist.

"He had crisps in court once," I said.

Cole looked genuinely horrified. "No."

"He claimed they'd 'fallen into his briefcase.'"

"They did not."

"They absolutely did not."

"What flavour?"

"Salt and vinegar."

He groaned.

"Of course."

"I still don't know why that's the detail you focused on."

"Because barbecue would've made more sense."

"It really wouldn't."

"I disagree."

"You would."

He smiled into the pillow.

"I probably would."

The room fell quiet again, but it wasn't uncomfortable anymore, just... quieter.

I lay back against my pillow, looking up at the ceiling where shadows from the trees outside moved slowly across the wood, and realised I'd almost forgotten we were supposed to be pretending none of this had ever happened.

That surprised me more than anything.

Because for weeks every conversation had felt measured, every smile carefully calibrated, every coincidence politely stepped around before either of us acknowledged it. Somewhere between dinner and Jordan's absurd room assignment and an entirely unnecessary debate about garlic bread, all that effort had simply... slipped.

I wasn't watching every word before I said it anymore.

Neither was he. Maybe being tired helped. Maybe having nowhere else to disappear to did. Or maybe I was just exhausted with carrying around things that refused to get any lighter no matter how carefully I balanced them.

I turned onto my side.

"Cole?"

"Hm?"

His voice was quieter now.

Half-asleep quieter.

I almost left it there.

Really, I should have.

I could already feel my sensible brain trying to file the thought away under things we absolutely do not say out loud at eleven-thirty at night while sharing a room with the man we've spent months trying not to love.

It was a very sensible folder.

Unfortunately... I'd stopped listening to it a while ago. I took a slow breath.

"I need to tell you something."

He turned his head slightly on the pillow. "Okay."

"I've been trying not to say it because every time I almost do, I convince myself I'll sound ridiculous."

"I don't think you could."

"You have far more confidence in me than I do."

"I've noticed."

I smiled, but it disappeared almost as quickly as it came.

For a few seconds I just watched the shadows moving across the ceiling, trying to decide whether this was bravery or complete stupidity. Maybe both. They weren't mutually exclusive.

"When I asked for space..." I began quietly, "...I wasn't asking you to… move on, as selfish as that sounds."

The room stayed very still.

"I know that's probably not what you heard." I let out a small laugh that wasn't really a laugh at all. "Actually, no. That's exactly what you heard because I was so busy trying to explain what I meant professionally that I never explained what I meant personally."

He didn't interrupt.

That somehow made it easier.

I swallowed. "I was mainly asking for space from... everything around us. The audit. Work. The fact that every conversation felt like somebody could walk in halfway through it. I just needed things to stop feeling so complicated for a little while."

I looked over at him. "I never wanted you to stop..." I hesitated, searching for the words. "...wanting me."

The silence stretched between us. Not uncomfortable, just careful.

"So when the audit finished..." I continued, "I drove to your apartment."

His eyebrows drew together. "I'd finally run out of reasons not to."

I laughed softly at myself. "I'd rehearsed the whole thing in the car. Several versions, actually. One of them was genuinely awful. I remember thinking maybe I'd just knock and hope something intelligent came out after that."

He was still looking at me. Completely focused.

"I parked outside." I looked back at the ceiling again because somehow that was easier than looking at him now. "I sat there for about five minutes trying to convince myself I wasn't about to make the biggest mistake of my life, and eventually I worked up the nerve to get out of the car."

I paused. "I had my hand on the door handle."

The words came more quietly after that. "Then your front door opened."

His expression didn't change.

"A woman came out." I heard him inhale.

"She was..." I frowned, trying to remember. "Tall. Beautiful. Effortlessly beautiful, actually. The sort of woman who looks expensive without trying." I laughed once under my breath. "She was laughing."

I closed my eyes for a second. "You came out behind her."

The room was silent except for the wind outside.

"You put your hand on her back." My voice had gone almost embarrassingly soft now. "Just for a second. It looked... familiar."

I stared at the blanket pulled over me. "You walked her to the car."

I could still picture it. Every irritatingly clear detail.

"You opened the passenger door for her, got in, and drove away."

Another pause.

"I remember sitting there thinking..." I shook my head. "No, that's not true. I wasn't thinking anything sensible. I was just... embarrassed."

The word landed harder than I expected.

"I'd spent weeks convincing myself there was still something between us and meanwhile you'd clearly..." I stopped and laughed quietly. "Well. You'd clearly moved on."

I rubbed a hand over my forehead.

"So I went home."

Another silence.

"I made tea." I smiled faintly. "It went cold."

"I sat on my sofa telling myself I was being perfectly rational and mature about the whole thing."

I looked across at him again. "I wasn't." A beat passed.

"I've been trying to be reasonable ever since." My shoulders lifted in the smallest shrug. "Every time we've spoken, every time we've accidentally run into each other, every conversation at the coffee shop or after work... I've kept telling myself I was overreacting because I didn't actually know anything."

I laughed quietly. "Turns out I'm not particularly good at being reasonable where you're concerned."

Nothing. Not a single word.

I frowned. "Cole?"

He was still looking at me. Very carefully.

His forehead creased slightly, not with guilt or discomfort but with something that looked remarkably like confusion.

After a long moment he said, very quietly, "What night was this?"

I blinked.

"The Thursday after the audit."

"What date?"

I told him.

He didn't answer straight away. Instead he asked, just as carefully,

"Can you describe the woman?"

"I..." I frowned, caught off guard. "Tall. Dark hair. Really beautiful. She was wearing a cream coat, I think. Or beige. Something expensive looking."

He didn't speak.

He pushed himself upright slowly, staring at nothing for a second, and in the moonlight I couldn't read his expression at all.