Just one more inch. One tiny step forward. It wouldn’t even have to be a step, it could be a lean, a tilt, a scoot. One tiny shuffle ahead and their bodies would be pressed against one another. His hand wanted to cup her chin, to tug her face upward to face him, to tell her that for two and a half years, he had rejected two dozen women who’d made advances, overtures. He’d rejected them because he’d been too busy.