Page 47

Again.
My palms are damp, so I press them against the cool wall behind me. Close my eyes for a moment.
Four counts in.
Hold.
Four counts out.
My heart’s still jumpy, but the buzzing under my skin starts to fade. Not gone, but manageable.
I open my eyes and look at Gage. He’s back to watching me with that intense focus. “I’m okay.”
“Maybe we should sit,” he suggests as he shrugs out of his suit jacket and undoes the top couple of buttons of his shirt. He doesn’t appear rattled by any of this.
I, on the other hand, have stress heat crawling over my skin, and can’t get my coat off fast enough.
Gage lowers himself to the floor, and God help me; even in my anxious state, I notice the way his shirt pulls tightly across his chest as he sits.
I follow, sliding down the wall into a seated position. My pencil skirt shifts with the motion, riding up enough to expose some of my thighs. I stretch my legs out, crossing one ankle over the other. When I glance up, I catch sight of Gage’s gaze on my legs right before he shifts his attention to his phone.
He taps out a text. “I’ve just let Shirley know we’re here. She said the girls are busy with their science project.” Amusement fills his face. “Apparently, Luna’s dramatics are getting too much for Sarah.”
“I imagine Sarah’s annoying Luna too. She’s like me and tends to zero in on details that don’t really matter.”
“They all matter. It’s a good skill to have. Luna will hopefully learn that from her.”
His compliment throws me back to yesterday. To all the kind things he said to me.Andthe hot mess I was. “Gage, I’m sorry about yesterday.”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”
I smooth my hands down my skirt. Another nervous habit. There are too many words in my head. Too much wild uncertainty in my life. And I’m struggling to sort through it. To keep it all firmly under control like I usually do. And then there’s Gage. And my attraction to him. It makes thinking about all the things I need to think about hard.
“Amelia,” he says, and I realize I got lost in my thoughts.
I bring my gaze back to him. “I really do. Mostly because I missed our meeting, and it dragged you away from work.”
“That was my choice. I was worried about you.”
I rest my head back against the wall and look up at the ceiling of the elevator. “I hate that.”
“What? Someone worrying over you?”
“Yes.” I turn my head to him. “It’s a responsibility you don’t need to add to your plate.”
“I care about you, Amelia. And that’s not a responsibility. It’s a choice.”
I’m not used to this kind of care. Not the kind that’s simple or that doesn’t come with expectations. I’ve been showing up for myself since I was a kid, long before I even understood that not everyone had to. My friends are lovely, but they orbit the surface. Dinner, book club, school events. They don’t ask the deeper questions. They wouldn’t know where to look for my fault lines, even if I handed them a map.
My brothers are the only ones who see through the “I’m fine” and call me on it. Everyone else? I keep them at arm’s length. Not because I don’t want closeness. But because letting someonein means chancing disappointment, and care—real care—has always felt like something that comes with a cost. Like the moment you accept it, you owe something back.
“So, no hangover this morning?” he asks while I sit with the unfamiliar feeling of being seen, and the reflex that still wants to pull back.
“I was okay.” I smile. “Which I know I have you to thank for. I’m not certain I would have stopped after three cocktails yesterday if not for you.”
“I’ve been there. It gets messy real fast. I wanted to save you from that.”
“I appreciate it.”