“Right,” Foreman said shortly, and then pressed his lips together. Amber would hear the bitterness in his voice, because he hadn’t tried very hard to hide it. She might still be holding his hand, but Foreman couldn’t feel that warmth over the sudden chill of her response. He kept his body away from hers, despite their linked fingers, his face turned slightly aside rather than trying to meet her eyes. He kept trying, and she kept shutting him down. What had happened to the woman who’d jumped him in public? Who’d so clearly wanted him? The one he hadn’t offended when he’d hugged her?

Who were they going slow for now, her sake or his? Why was Amber acting like she was the only one who’d gotten hurt by their fight? Foreman had tried opening up again and he’d gotten shot down. So, fine, they’d go slow. He went with Amber, but he felt stiff and standoffish. She’d hurt him by not giving him a damn inch, and Foreman didn’t really care how stupidly petty it was, some part of him wanted to hurt back by retreating into a shell of sullen politeness.

Foreman let go of Amber’s hand at the door so that he could grab his coat, pulling it on. He supposed that anything he might tell Amber about his day--the satisfaction of submitting that article, for instance--would be overshadowed by the fact that she’d had to do paperwork. Maybe he hadn’t seen it before, but it looked like any topic of conversation was going to go to ground on the rocks simply because he was her boss and could grab a few more snatches of free time. He waited for Amber to open the door, since she was so adamant about that, and didn’t reach for her hand again when they were walking down the hall.