“The kiss,” I say, because apparently I’m brave or stupid now.
Maybe both.
His body goes still in a way that makes the whole kitchen feel smaller.
“No.”
The answer comes fast.
Rough.
Sure.
My pulse jumps.
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Are you acting strange because of that or because of this?” I tap the bulletin.
“I act strange for several reasons.”
“Derby.”
His eyes hold mine. “Both.”
That honesty hits harder than a smooth denial would have.
He steps closer, then stops himself with one hand on the back of a chair. “I don’t regret kissing you. I regret wanting to do it again while people are threatening your kid.”
The ache that moves through me is sharp and sweet.
He keeps going, voice lower. “I regret that I woke up thinking about your mouth before I thought about the damn bulletin. I regret that I heard you breathing down the hall and wanted to be in that room for reasons that had nothing to do with guarding the door. I regret that your boy asked if I was still here, and some part of me liked being the answer.”
My throat closes.
He looks almost angry now.
At himself.
At me.
At whatever this is becoming.
“I got plenty to regret, Amelia. The kiss ain’t one of them.”
The kitchen is too quiet.
The pancakes are burning.
Neither one of us moves to save them.
I whisper, “Derby.”
His eyes close for half a second. “Don’t say my name like that if you don’t want me closer.”
“What if I do?”