Page 64 of The Backup Plan

Safe.

Isn’t that the most dangerous part? It’s not like I’m looking to date, but today showed me what it felt like to be valued. My opinions mattered. My dry humor was appreciated. My banter was reciprocated.

I was acknowledged in a way I can’t ever remember feeling before, and in a time when I’m trying to move on from the scars Jared left, it means more to me than I ever could have expected.

Lucas Hale temps me to reconsider dating. I promised myself that men were off my radar, and yet, he unknowingly changed my position. His attentiveness and thoughtfulness reminded me what it felt like to be seen and heard.

Fuck.

I pace the length of my living room. Past the stupidly bright lamp, the ridiculous cactus piñata, the bright throw pillows, and hand-crafted platter I bought. All of them proof that today happened. That I laughed and wanted and almost forgot every rule I’ve set for this fresh start of mine.

Lucas Hale is my patient. My responsibility. A professional line I can’t cross without risking everything I’ve worked for.

A fling would be easy.

The traitorous but delicious thought slips in uninvited.

The gratification people warn you against but secretly understand and cheer you toward. A libidinous, uncomplicated distraction with a man who makes me laugh and looks at me like I matter.

It’s tempting.

He’s hot. Single. Kind in ways he doesn’t advertise. And he lives ten feet from me.

But this job?

This fresh start?

That’s not replaceable even if it is for a toe-curling orgasm and someone to cuddle up to after a hard day.

I didn’t agree to end a marriage that made me feel small and careful and apologetic, just to risk it all for great chemistry.

Even if that chemistry makes my skin hum.

And especially if the almost kiss keeps replaying in my head.

My feet falter and I laugh once. It’s short and breathless and self-deprecating. “Get it together, Porter,” I mutter to myself.

This cannot happen.

Not willingly.

Not impulsively.

Not at the cost of everything I’m rebuilding.

“Would you listen to yourself?” I ask as I pull my shirt over my head. “You’re already talking yourself out of falling madly in love with the man when all he did was steady you in a crowd. Overthinker of the century right here,” I say and hold my hand up like I’m being picked out of a crowd.

I glance again at the items I came home with and smile despite myself. It was still a good day, right?

You’re lonely, Em. Lonely people make up imaginary interest without solid proof the other person is even thinking the same thing.

I sigh and shimmy off my shorts.

Tomorrow I’ll be professional. Careful, controlled.

I unhook my bra.

Tomorrow I’ll remember exactly where that line is.