Page 26 of My Only (My First, My Last)

H assani

I ran a hand down my face slowly and sighed instead of grunted. My eyes were heavy as hell, and my pulse kept ticking higher the longer I stared at my computer screen.

Last-minute revisions had me parked at my desk, stress settling in like an unwanted guest, yet again.

“Can I get you more coffee?” Harper asked, hovering near me. She leaned against my desk, hands pressed into the surface as she studied the blueprint of the residential layout I’d created—the one she’d found a flaw in just minutes before I was set to head home.

We were in Phase 3 of the Greene Gardens Project, preparing the first neighborhoods, commercial spaces, and parks for occupancy.

Project managers were waiting for the go-ahead to schedule launch events—public unveilings, ribbon-cutting ceremonies, all marking the milestone of welcoming the first residents.

And now, this .

“No coffee.” I sat up in my chair, dragging in a deep breath. “Let me just…” I exhaled hard. “Let me get back to this.”

Minutes before I was ready to leave, Harper had walked through my office door with urgent steps, saying she’d discovered a flaw. A flow issue, as she called it.

Her concern? The open-concept townhouses from Phase 1.

She claimed that, in some areas, the interior spaces felt too enclosed. That the natural light didn’t move through the units the way it should. Her solution? Wider entryways and larger interior windows to improve the visual connection between rooms.

At first, I wasn’t convinced.

“Does that really need to be altered, though?” I asked, frowning as I studied the blueprints on my screen. “The open-concept looks fine to me, Harper.”

“Well,” she smiled, “that’s why you’re the architect, and I’m the interior designer.”

And just like that, I’d been stuck at my desk ever since, searching for the flaw.

I scanned the plans. Ran simulations. Cross-checked light distribution in the 3D renderings.

I still didn’t see it.

But Harper was the interior designer. This was her specialty. And if she was this convinced, I had to at least consider that she was seeing something I wasn’t.

Another deep breath left me as I reached for my sketchbook. Not my personal one. The one I kept specifically for the project. I loosened my tie, unbuttoned the first two buttons on my dress shirt, and rolled my sleeves up to my forearms. Then, flipping to a fresh page, I picked up my pencil.

I needed to rework this. Figure it out.

As I started sketching, Harper stayed planted by my side, watching. I glanced up briefly, catching her staring at me.

“You don’t have to stick around for this part, Harper,” I said, my focus back on my work. “You can head home.”

“It’s fine,” she replied easily. “I enjoy your company. And I want to be a part of all aspects of this project, so when history is made, I can say I was right there with the genius that is Hassani.”

I huffed. “ Hmph .” Didn’t feel like a genius right now.

My pencil moved in careful strokes as I sketched a concept for wider interior windows.

“I still can’t figure out what the genius likes to eat, though,” she added.

I lifted my eyes to her. “What?”

She smiled wider. “For most of the nights you’ve stayed late, when I ordered in? You never eat.”

I just looked at her.

“I’ve tried Chinese, Indian… heck , even Italian. And everyone loves Italian, right?” She giggled. “But still, nothing. You don’t even take a bite.”

I smirked slightly. “Those are fine. I just don’t like thinking about food when I’m dealing with a crisis, you know?”

I leaned back, stroking my beard as I examined the sketch, shifting my gaze between the blueprints on my screen and the design I was drawing by hand.

Something still wasn’t clicking.

I shook my head, exhaling.

I still don’t see what’s wrong with the blueprint.

“Well, what do you like to eat?” Harper asked, her tone light. “What makes Hassani go, yum ?”

I let out a scoffing laugh, finally turning my attention to her.

It wasn’t lost on me that Harper was attracted to me. She didn’t exactly keep it a secret either. Harper was a beautiful woman, and she knew it. And while Ayla had made it clear she didn’t like her—probably for that very reason—I felt like I had it handled.

Harper and I worked together on a massive project, and keeping our working relationship functional was a priority.

We needed to get the job done and get it done right.

Calling out her forwardness, making it an issue, had the potential to create unnecessary tension—tension that could impact the work.

So, I convinced myself it was easier, more logical, to let her flirty ways fly. To ignore it.

Women like Harper weren’t new to me. I’d dealt with plenty before. And in my mind, she was harmless.

Because at the end of the day, I was in control.

And there was no amount of beauty or flirting that could change that.

“I like simple things, I guess,” I replied, already shifting my focus back to my work.

“Like?”

“Surf and turf’s the one thing I know I can never go wrong with,” I said, sketching as I spoke. “My wife and I love the surf and turf at Vernon’s Prime & Seafood in Lower Manhattan. It’s near the Freedom Tower.”

I smiled to myself as I thought about how much Ayla loved their bread pudding. Watching her eat it was one of my favorite things. She was such a vocal eater when she really enjoyed something.

“She orders it every time,” I added. “That and their bread pudding. The dessert is her favorite.”

“We should go there then.”

That got my attention.

My gaze lifted to hers, and I blinked once.

“I could use something to eat, and so could you,” Harper continued. “Plus, you could grab Ayla ,” she stressed her name, “that bread pudding you mentioned. I’m sure she’d be happy to have it when you get home.”

I looked away, considering that.

Bringing home the dessert would soften the blow of another late night at the office.

Things had been… off between Ayla and me for months. Missing that dinner at her mother’s house—the one where her mom introduced her boyfriend—was a serious blow. To both of us.

And even though Ayla told me she forgave me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that things had changed.

We spoke less on the phone. Spent less time together.

Most nights, by the time I got home, she was already asleep. And on weekends? She was either running errands, visiting her mom, or off doing something solo—mall trips, coffee runs.

She was distant.

And I’d been trying to figure out how to fix that. Maybe the bread pudding could be a start.

“So, what do you say?” Harper nudged. “We can head out now, which means you’ll get home earlier. Then, we can pick this back up tomorrow.”

At that moment, anything besides staring at these blueprints felt like a good idea.

So… I agreed.

It didn’t seem like a big deal.

It was only after Harper and I pulled up to Vernon’s that I felt uneasy.

The feeling hit me the moment I stepped out of the car, reached for the restaurant’s front door, and held it open for her.

Because I’d only ever done that for Ayla whenever we visited Vernon’s.

This place had been our spot since my parents first brought us here years ago. Ayla fell in love with it that night, and from then on, it became the restaurant we always came back to.

And people here knew us.

I suddenly realized how this might look.

I hadn’t thought about it when Harper suggested it.

Hadn’t thought about it during the car ride over.

Hadn’t thought about it when I found parking out front.

But now?

Now, it was all I could think about.

We stepped inside, and I instinctively held my breath as we approached a group of people who crowded the podium.

Please don’t be here. Please don’t be here.

The small group parted for Harper and I, and as luck would have it, Miranda, the usual hostess, wasn’t at the stand.

Instead, a male host greeted us.

I let out a breath of relief.

And then immediately frowned.

Why the hell am I relieved? I’m not doing anything wrong… right?

“Good evening,” the host said, looking between us. “Do you two have a reservation?”

“Nope,” Harper giggled. “We’re walk-ins.”

My eyes scanned the restaurant, taking in the intimate booths, the dim lighting, the couples leaning close over their meals.

None of it helped the uneasy feeling creeping up my spine.

“No worries,” the host said. “We have a few open tables. I can seat you now.”

“Oh,” I cut in, shaking my head. “We don’t need a table.”

I turned to Harper.

“You’re just picking up food, right?”

“Well,” she pivoted, facing me fully. “We could just eat here .”

“Oh, nah.” I chuckled nervously, trying to keep my tone light. “I’m not eating. I just came to grab the bread pudding and head home.”

Harper let out a soft laugh, unfazed. Then she glanced back at the host before refocusing on me.

“Well, look,” she said smoothly, “let’s take a seat. I’ll order my food, you can order your dessert, and by the time it’s ready, you can head out. No biggie.”

I blinked.

The host chimed in. “Sounds like a solid plan. Our kitchen’s fully staffed tonight, so you won’t have to wait long, sir.”

I shrugged. “Okay. That works then.”

Deep down, it didn’t feel that way. But I was already here. Once I got the bread pudding, I’d head home.

Harper chose one of the green leather booths when the host asked if she had a preference.

That was somewhat reassuring. I’d never sat at the booths in Vernon’s with Ayla. Always at the center table.

Our center table.

A table we always reserved ahead of time.

Still, as I slid into the booth across from Harper, an unease settled in my chest.

I don’t know if it was because this was Ayla’s favorite restaurant and she wasn’t here.

Or maybe it was the dim lighting. The soft jazz. The intimacy of the booths, things I’d never really noticed before tonight.

Because from an outsider’s perspective?

It definitely looked like I was on a date.

“Surf and turf,” Harper said, scanning the menu. “That’s what you like, right?”

I shifted my focus to her. “Yup. One of the best.”