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I grinned. There she was. “Deal. Just so you know, I don’t like to wait for pancakes.”
She rolled over, stretching like a cat, completely unapologetic about being naked and entirely in charge of the space between us.
It was infuriating how good she looked like this—hair wild, face flushed, absolutely at ease.
We dressed in the easy silence of people who’d slept together often but never stayed. I found my watch on her nightstand, next to a book of essays on modern surrealism and a bottle of perfume.
As she slipped on a pair of cutoff shorts and a cropped tank, I pulled my shirt over my head and offered—too casually— “You know… we’ve got a small office open at Vérité. Could be a good temp setup for your new business. Private. Quiet. Yours, if you want it.”
She paused, one foot halfway into a sandal, and glanced over at me. “You offering me a job?”
“Just space,” I said. “A door and a desk. You’re too dangerous to manage.”
She laughed and finished dressing without saying yes or no.
I grabbed my keys, trying not to think about the fact that I still didn’t want to leave.
We drove separately to the café.
I told myself it made sense—she had errands to run afterward, and I needed to head into Vérité. But the truth?
I wasn’t sure what we were yet.
Whatever last night was, it still hadn’t settled into a category I knew how to navigate.
The café she chose sat at the corner of a shady block just off Ocean Blvd., all terra cotta pots and climbing ivy, the kind of place with fresh pastries and servers who didn’t write anything down. The breeze off the bay cut through the morning heat, and the awning cast the table in soft shadow.
She was already there when I arrived—sunglasses perched on her head, hair twisted up like she hadn’t tried too hard. And then there was the top—cropped, ribbed, and so fitted it made my brain forget the point of conversation.
I sat down across from her and let the server pour water before breaking the silence.
“You slept?” I asked.
“Like a woman who made excellent choices,” she said, sipping her water.
I smiled, even as I tried to pull myself back into something that resembled control. “You give my ego too much credit.”
“Your ego doesn’t need help.”
There it was again. Not flirtation, not exactly. Just clarity. Confidence. A woman who knew her worth and didn’t care if I saw it.
We ordered breakfast—hers: the fruit plate and black coffee; mine: scrambled eggs and something carby I wouldn’t finish.
When the waiter left, I cleared my throat. “That office I mentioned—at Vérité. Still available. If you want it.”
Juliette took a sip of her coffee, cool as ever. “I do. For now. But I’ve already contacted a realtor in Coconut Grove about renting something permanent nearby. I’d rather build my own space than borrow someone else’s long-term.”
The smile I gave her was automatic. Too smooth to be sincere. “Of course. Makes sense.”
Inside, though? It landed like a gut punch. Not because she didn’t appreciate the offer, but because she didn’tneedit. Or me.
It wasn’t rejection. But it wasn’t the playful tug-of-war I was used to either. This was Juliette, the expert. Juliette the partner. And apparently, I didn’t know what the hell to do with that.
I adjusted my watch, trying not to stare at her breasts shifting slightly in that infernal top as she leaned forward. Less than twelve hours ago, I had touched every inch of her, and now Iwas sitting here like an intern, trying not to get caught ogling the boss.
“About Germany,” I said, steering the conversation back into waters I understood. “The handoff is in three weeks. Baden-Baden. The Kandinsky piece has a full provenance trail. But I still need help with the export documentation and verifying the chain of custody, especially if we will include any press coverage. There will be no language barrier. I’m fluent in French and German.”
Juliette reached for her phone and started typing without a word.