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Amelia:
I thought Shayla was collecting her.
Me:
Change of plans. She’s busy. I’ll try to get there by five.
Amelia:
Okay. See you then.
Me:
We’ll make it happen, Amelia.
She doesn’t text a reply, and I find myself still watching my phone ten minutes later. Waiting.
It’s been years since a woman’s silence has held my attention like this. In fact, only one woman ever has, and it wasn’t depth that pulled me under. It was the sex and the intoxicating rush of being made to feel like I was her entire world.
I was young back then and had no fucking idea.
I didn’t know physical attraction and good sex weren’t enough to hold a relationship together.
Now?
This interest?
The way my thoughts have started returning to Amelia throughout the day, and the way I’m so fucking eager for a text from her?
It’s not about her looks, though she’s fucking stunning.
No, what holds me is a woman who reads about war, writes music like a poet, mothers like a lioness, cares deeply for others, puts herself last, and shows up every day with the kind of vulnerability I rarely see.
It’s the way she walks into a room like she has no idea she’s the most captivating thing in it. The way she prioritizes what matters while the rest of the world drowns in superficial bullshit. The way she bends under the weight she carries but refuses to break.
I’m fascinated by her mind and the way it never stops. Overthinking, organizing, and obsessing over the smallest details like they’re life or death.
I want to know every corner of it.
And fuck, I shouldn’t want that.
Not when her daughter’s friendship is the only one that’s ever mattered to Luna.
The only thing I should want is to keep things from going to hell between us because we wouldn’t be the only ones who got burned if that happened. It’d be the girls too.
I lean back and scrub a hand down my face.
The first woman I’ve wanted for more than dinner and sex in a long time, the only one who could crawl under my skin and make me like it, and she has to be my daughter’s best friend’s mother.
I’m in the middle of that thought when my office door crashes open and Shayla storms in like a goddamn hurricane.
“I have an assistant for many reasons, Shayla,” I drawl, lifting my gaze to her. “And one of those reasons is to only let people in here who have an appointment.”
“Don’t,” she snaps, striding to my desk. “What the hell is this?” She waves a crumpled letter like it’s offensive to her.
I stand, slowly taking her in. She’s dressed immaculately, of course. Designer dress. Blown-out hair. The usual. But there’s a crack in the veneer today. Her eyes are wild, and there’s a flush on her cheeks that has nothing to do with makeup.
“I see Blair’s letter reached you.” My cold tone should let her know I’m not in the mood for her today.