Checking It Twice

Chapter Eight - Rowan

The problem with agreeing to be friends is that it sounds reasonable.

Mature. Functional. The kind of decision people make when they want to believe they’re in control of a situation that’s already halfway out of their hands.

I tell myself this as I walk into the small conference room behind the suite level—coffee in one hand, tablet in the other—fully prepared to be professional.

Hollis is already there.

She’s standing at the window, phone pressed to her ear, nodding as she listens. Hair pulled back. Posture straight. Every inch of her looks composed.

That should make this easier.

It doesn’t.

She ends the call as I shut the door behind me. “Sorry. Vendor issue.”

“Of course it is,” I say lightly. “It wouldn’t be the holidays without at least one small disaster.”

She smiles—brief, polite. Guarded.

We take seats across from each other like this is a negotiation instead of a reckoning.

Silence stretches.

I clear my throat. “So. Uh. You wanted to talk.”

“Yes,” she says immediately. Too immediately. “I think we should… clarify things.”

My chest tightens. “Clarify how?”

She folds her hands on the table, fingers lacing together like she’s anchoring herself. “Us.”

There it is.

I nod once. “Okay.”

She studies my face for a moment, like she’s checking for cracks. “What happened at the event—it wasn’t inappropriate. But it also wasn’t nothing. And I don’t want us pretending we don’t feel it, because that’s how mistakes happen.”

I swallow. “Agreed.”

“But,” she continues, voice steady, “I also don’t want to keep dancing around this like it’s unresolved history waiting to explode.”

I almost laugh, because that’s exactly what it is.

“So what are you proposing?” I ask.

She exhales slowly. “Friends.”

The word lands heavier than it should.

“Friends,” she repeats. “We work together. We’re cordial. We stop testing each other.”

My jaw tightens. “No flirting.”

“No flirting,” she confirms.

“No loaded looks,” I add.

She tilts her head. “You do that too.”

“Fair.”

“No revisiting the past,” she says. “And no creating new… moments.”

I nod, even though every instinct in my body is already arguing with the idea.

“And,” she adds, meeting my eyes directly now, “if this starts to feel like something it’s not supposed to be, we say it out loud instead of letting it fester.”

That part matters.

“Okay,” I say. “Friends.”

She watches me carefully. “You’re sure?”

I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

It’s not the truth.

But it’s the best version of it I’m willing to offer right now.

She relaxes just a fraction, like she’s relieved we’re choosing something defined—even if it’s temporary.

“Good,” she says. “Then we’re on the same page.”

She stands, gathering her things. Professional again. Efficient.

I stand too, the space between us suddenly loud with everything we’re agreeing not to touch.

She hesitates at the door. “This is the smart choice.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “It is.”

She gives me a small, resolute nod and leaves.

The door clicks shut behind her.

I stay where I am, staring at the empty chair she just vacated, chest tight with the knowledge settling deeper by the second:

We didn’t choose easy.

We chose manageable.

And there’s a difference.

Because wanting Hollis Reed doesn’t disappear just because we’ve named it inconvenient.

It just learns how to wait.

And I’ve never been good at pretending patience feels like anything other than loss.