Page 25 of Worth the Wait (Worth It All #2)
I pull into Lianne’s driveway at eight-thirty with Thai food from her favorite restaurant and the kind of anticipation that’s become familiar over the past three weeks.
The porch light glows warm and welcoming, and I can see movement through her living room windows—probably Lianne finishing up work calls or reviewing vendor contracts at her dining room table.
Three weeks of this routine, and it still makes me smile. The easy domesticity of bringing dinner to the woman I’m falling for all over again, the comfortable intimacy we’ve built after years of wondering what might have been.
I grab the takeout bags and my overnight bag from the passenger seat.
We hadn’t made specific plans for me to stay over, but it’s become our unspoken Monday night tradition.
With the Martinez wedding this weekend and the Sterling Industries gala the following weekend, we’re heading into two weeks of intense event coordination that will consume most of Lianne’s time and energy.
The thought should energize me—this event represents months of planning and a partnership that’s brought Lianne and me back together. Instead, I find myself hoping we can forget about business for a few hours and just be us.
I ring the doorbell rather than using the key she gave me last week, wanting to give her a heads up that I’m here.
When the door opens, my first thought is that she looks beautiful—dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing the USC sweatshirt she stole from my place, no makeup but glowing with the kind of natural radiance that used to make me forget whatever I was supposed to be doing.
My second thought is that something’s off.
“Hey,” she says, stepping back to let me in. Her smile appears genuine but there’s a performative quality to it—like she’s going through the motions of greeting me rather than simply being glad I’m here. There’s a measured quality to her movements that sets off warning bells I can’t quite identify.
“Hey yourself.” I lean down to kiss her, expecting the kind of warm greeting that’s become routine between us. Instead, she turns slightly so my lips catch her cheek rather than her mouth. “Thai food from Riverside, including that mango sticky rice you’ve been craving.”
“That’s perfect. Thank you.” Her gratitude sounds sincere, but there’s something politely formal about it that makes me study her face more carefully.
She looks tired—not just end-of-workday tired, but emotionally drained in a way I haven’t seen since the early days after we reconnected. Like she’s been carrying something heavy and hasn’t figured out how to set it down.
“Long day?” I ask, following her into the kitchen and setting the takeout bags on her island.
“The usual pre-event chaos. Final confirmations, last-minute adjustments, vendor coordination.” She’s already pulling plates from the cabinet, moving with efficient purpose rather than the relaxed energy she usually has when I bring dinner.
“Everything’s on track for Saturday, though.
The Martinez wedding is going to be spectacular. ”
There’s something almost rehearsed about the way she delivers this update, like she’s giving a status report to a client rather than talking to the man who’s been sharing her bed for three weeks.
“I’m sure it will be,” I say, unpacking the containers while watching her movements, trying to pinpoint what feels different. “But I was asking about your day, not the event timeline.”
She glances up from arranging utensils with unnecessary precision. “My day was the event timeline. You know how it is the week before a major celebration.”
I do know, which is why her answer feels like deflection rather than explanation. The woman who used to text me random thoughts throughout the day, who’d call during her lunch break just to hear my voice, has been replaced by someone who treats our conversations like business meetings.
“What’s really going on?” I ask directly.
“Nothing’s going on.” The response comes too quickly, accompanied by a smile that seems designed to reassure me but only increases my concern. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long week.”
I want to push, to ask why tired feels different from the usual pre-event stress I’ve watched her handle with grace and energy. But something in her posture suggests that pressing for details would only make her withdraw further.
“Okay,” I say instead, opening the container of pad Thai and serving portions onto our plates. “Let’s eat and then I’ll run you a bath. You can fall asleep early, and I’ll handle any vendor calls that come in tonight.”
For a moment, something flickers across her face—gratitude, maybe, or relief. But then she’s back to that measured politeness.
“You don’t have to do that. I can manage.”
“I know you can manage. I want to take care of you.”
We eat at her kitchen island, discussing florist confirmations and timeline adjustments with the kind of operational focus that used to energize both of us.
Tonight, it feels like a barrier between us—safe topics that allow Lianne to participate in conversation without revealing whatever’s really on her mind.
“The setup crew arrives at seven AM,” she says, picking at her food without much appetite. “Florals and linens go in first, followed by lighting and audiovisual. We should have everything in place by noon, which gives us six hours before guest arrival.”
“Sounds perfect,” I reply, though what I really want to ask is why she won’t look directly at me, why every topic of conversation relates to business logistics, why the woman who used to curl into my side while we shared takeout is maintaining such deliberate distance even sitting next to me.
When I reach over to touch her hand, she startles slightly before relaxing into the contact. But even then, something feels wrong. Forced. Like she’s reminding herself to accept my touch rather than craving it the way she used to.
The truth is, I’d been noticing this shift for days.
Not just tonight, but a gradual pulling back that I’d been trying to attribute to work stress.
Three weeks ago, I’d mentioned my parents’ wine club dinner, suggested she might enjoy meeting some of the other couples who shared her passion for exceptional vintages.
She’d smiled and said she had client calls that couldn’t be moved.
“You know how crazy pre-event coordination gets,” she’d said, and I’d nodded because I did know. The Sterling Industries gala was consuming her time and energy in ways that left little room for social obligations.
But looking back now, I wonder if it was something else entirely. A reluctance to be introduced to my family’s social circle, maybe. Or perhaps the beginning of whatever’s causing her to treat me like a business associate tonight.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask finally, unable to ignore the shift in energy that’s been building since I walked through her door.
“Just focused on delivering exceptional events,” she says, offering another one of those measured smiles. “This is everything I’ve worked toward professionally. I want both the Martinez wedding and your gala to be perfect.”
The explanation makes sense. The Sterling Industries anniversary represents the kind of high-profile success that could establish Luminous Events among the top tier of luxury planners in Los Angeles. Of course she’s feeling pressure.
But there’s something in her voice, a quality of emotional distance that has nothing to do with work stress and everything to do with the way she’s been avoiding my eyes all evening.
“The events will be incredible,” I say, meaning it. “You create magic for people, Lianne. Both Saturday and next weekend will be no exception.”
“Thank you.” Again, that formal gratitude that sounds like she’s talking to a client rather than the man she’s been building a future with.
We finish dinner in conversation that covers vendor schedules and guest accommodations, and I find myself missing the easy intimacy we’d developed over three weeks of sharing meals and stories and dreams for what came next.
Tonight feels like we’re going through the motions of normalcy while something fundamental has shifted between us.
I try one more time to steer us toward personal territory. “Sophia threw Alessandra a birthday party last weekend—you should have seen the setup. Full carnival theme with an actual ferris wheel in the backyard. The logistics must have been incredible.”
“That sounds lovely,” Lianne replies, but she’s already standing to clear our plates, effectively ending the conversation before I can tell her about thinking of her while watching the elaborate coordination, about wishing she’d been there with me.
“I’m sorry, but I’m really exhausted,” she continues. “Would you mind if we called it an early night?”
The deflection is swift and final, shutting down any chance for deeper conversation with such efficiency that I wonder if she’s been planning this exit strategy all evening.
When we move to her bedroom later, she kisses me with an intensity that catches me off guard—not the comfortable passion we’ve settled into, but something desperate and almost frantic. Like she’s trying to memorize the feeling rather than simply enjoying the moment.
She makes love like she’s saying goodbye.
The thought hits me as she moves above me with urgent tenderness, her hands mapping my chest and shoulders like she’s gathering memories instead of creating them.
There’s something almost desperate about the way she touches me, a quality that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with finality.
“You’re everything to me,” I whisper against her throat, and she freezes for just a moment before kissing me harder, deeper, with the kind of intensity that feels more like desperation than passion.