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Yeah.”
    Not that I wanted to stick around long enough for coffee, but it gave us an excuse to get out of this bed. We parted ways as people do after one-night stands that shouldn’t have happened: awkward coffee, mumbled excuses, and a quick escape with noncommittal comments about “later” and “again.” We skipped the good-bye kiss too, which only underscored the point that was already much too clear: last night should not have happened.
    Even if I wasn’t completely sure why. One-night stands were fine with me. But . . . neighbors. Two guys who couldn’t avoid each other forever. And one was a minister, for fuck’s sake. Exactly the kind of person I avoided at all costs, all wrapped up in a body I couldn’t resist. Exactly the kind of person I had no business getting involved with unless I wanted to take years’ worth of emotional healing about twenty steps backward.
    I tried—yeah right—to get my mind off last night and this morning as I showered, poured another gallon or so of coffee down my throat, fed and watered the cat, and headed downstairs to the shop.
    There wasn’t much to do right off the bat. I kept my workstation immaculate. The waiting area needed just a little tidying—straighten the pile of magazines and portfolios, run through with the broom and dustpan—and the counter and desks were organized already. Not a damned thing to do, and two hours before my first appointment.
    I needed something to occupy my restless hands and brain, so I grabbed a clipboard, opened up the ink cabinet, and started counting cups and bottles.
    I was about halfway through our stock when the front door opened. I hoped it was an early walk-in, but it was just Lane. “Hey, man.”
    “Morning,” he grumbled, and sipped his coffee. “How’s it going?”
    “Good. You?”
    “Eh.”
    Typical. I went back to counting.
    “Uh, Seth?”
    I leaned back and glanced past the open cabinet door. “Hmm?”
    Lane eyed me. “You are aware it’s Friday, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    He gestured at the cabinet. “We’re going to use half of what’s in there before you have a chance to order on Monday.”
    “I know. I know. I just need . . . something to do for a few minutes.”
    “Dude, we’re self-employed,” he said, chuckling. “You don’t have to look busy.”
    “No, I just need to be busy. Something to”—I tapped my temple with my pen—“keep my mind busy.”
    “Oh.” He furrowed his brow. “Okay. Uh, you all right?”
    “Yeah. Yeah. Just a lot on my mind.” I checked the clock. It was close to eleven, and we probably wouldn’t see any walk-ins for a while, so I set the clipboard aside. “I’m going to go grab lunch. You want me to bring anything back for you?”
    “Nah, I’m good. Thanks, though.”
    “Anytime. Back in an hour.”
    I didn’t head toward the town square like I usually would. Better food down that way, but it was also the route Darren and I had taken last night, and retracing those steps wouldn’t do me a bit of good right now.
    I got in my truck, backed out of the parking space, and went in the opposite direction, not allowing myself even a glimpse of the familiar street in the rearview. Once I’d turned down the next street, I released a breath and tried to stretch some tension out of my shoulders.
    This was ridiculous. It didn’t make sense. Something about last night had me sick to my stomach, and . . . why ? I’d had more one-night stands than I could count—including a few with coworkers, classmates, and close friends—and none of them had bugged me like this.
    I tried not to think about it, but how well did that ever work? And the more I thought about it, willingly or otherwise, the worse I felt. My skin crawled. My stomach twisted. Every time I moved, a twinge reminded me of something we’d done, something he’d done, and queasiness mixed with semi-dormant arousal. Like if I went upstairs to my apartment and just gave in and let the memories wash over me, I wasn’t