That catches me off guard. I shrug out of my jacket. She watches, but doesn’t stop me, and I take that as permission to stay.
“Antonia,” I say gently, “today was hard. The protesters, the board members, the constant fighting just to keep things moving forward.”
I drape my jacket over the back of a barstool beside the kitchen counter, then I turn back to her, reaching for her hands. “But you don’t need to survive me.”
She looks up. Sad. Lost. As if she’s unsure what to say next.
We just stand, staring at each other.
It’s clear that neither of us expected this.
When I first walked into her office last year, asking for funding for the retreat, the last thing I thought I’d find was love. And that’s what this is.
Whether we’ve been together twelve hours or twelve months doesn’t seem to matter. Somewhere along the way, I’ve fallen for her. We’ve built something through shared board meetings and arguments about the color of paint.
It sounds crazy.
But it’s true.
“Ben,” she says quietly, “I’ve worked too hard to endanger my career for love.”
She pulls her hands away, walking past me into the living area before sitting down on the sofa. Two glasses of wine are alreadypoured, sitting on the coffee table. She planned for me to stay. That’s positive.
“Sit,” she says. “You said we need to talk.”
I sit down on the sofa at right angles to hers. We’re perched on the edge—close enough that if I reached out, I could touch her, but far enough away that she still feels safe.
“Opengate has been my world,” she says. “After losing Mikey… and then Luke…”
My face must change. She notices.
“My ex-husband,” she explains quietly. “He left after Mikey died.” She exhales slowly. “I threw myself into fighting the system instead of dealing with myself.”
“I can understand that,” I tell her.
“And opening myself up to someone else,” she continues, “doesn’t feel possible right now.”
I look at her, at where she lives. Everything exactly where it should be.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe I should stay in my lane—her partner on the retreat she’s funding in a philanthropic effort. Not someone crossing into personal territory. Perhaps that’s what makes her uncomfortable.
It makes me uncomfortable too. But I think it’s worth a try. Even if it is a bad idea, nothing could make me move away right now.
“We don’t have to let this affect the retreat,” I say.
She blinks, then she picks up her glass and takes a sip. My focus locks on her neck, the muscle moving softly beneath the smooth skin.
“We’ve found something people spend their whole lives searching for,” I continue. “Don’t you want to see where it goes?”
She shakes her head slightly.
Then nods.
Then shakes it again.
Internal conflict in a single response.