I blamed Ben. It wasn’t fair. It also wasn’t entirely inaccurate.
Every time I walked past the workbench where we’d almost kissed the night before, I pictured the roller door flying open and Ben standing there with the expression of a man who wished he’d accidentally left himself somewhere else instead of his phone.
By the time I finished making coffee upstairs, I’d replayed the moment at least twenty times.
Each version ended exactly the same way. Interrupted.
I showered, brushed my teeth and tied my hair up before getting dressed and I headed downstairs with my coffee.
Mia arrived a few minutes later carrying a folder tucked beneath one arm.
“Morning.” She said.
“Morning.” I said and she studied me for a second.
“You look tired.” She said.
“I slept.” I said.
“That’s no
