Immigration is surprisingly fast, and by the time I get to the carousel, my checked bag is already waiting, neatly lined up with the other first-class luggage.
I wheel it toward the exit, trying to keep my legs steady, wondering what will happen when I walk through those doors.
Why now, Ethan? Why did your work trip have to be now? I’m not great at handling strangers.
Don’t be a baby, Lilly.
Well . . . technically, Amos isn’t a stranger. I mean, he did give me a chin-nod and grunt-question combo that one Christmas.
God, he’s so intimidating. And he never smiles. He’s like a two-meter-tall wall of muscle and perpetual grumpiness.
I don’t even have the advantage of height. At five foot two, I look like a keychain next to him.
My stomach twists. I’m not ready to interact with new people.
I got too excited about “freedom” and forgot that freedom comes with dealing with people.
Before I can dwell any longer on my spiraling anxiety, the double doors slide open—and there he is: the man who’ll be sharing an apartment with me for the next thirty days, standing tall and silent, waiting.
Chapter 8
I check my phone for the third time in under five minutes, wondering what the hell is taking her so long. The flight tracker app says the plane has landed.
I try to remind myself this whole responsibility is temporary—but I’m a control freak by nature, and anything that doesn’t go according to plan drives me fucking insane.
I’m anxious, and that pisses me off even more.
Finally, the screen lights up.
Fifteen minutes pass, and she still doesn’t come out. The restlessness returns. Standing still is not my thing.
While I wait, I try to piece together the image of the girl I met two years ago with the one Ethan described to me now.
Fashion school? For some reason, I’m surprised she’s even planning to finish college.
Yeah, go ahead and call me judgmental—but the little Miss Perfect I saw that Christmas seemed ready to follow in hermother’s footsteps, which basically meant becoming a trophy wife for some rich asshole.
Not that it’s any of my business . . . But I don’t like imagining her becoming another Nora. No woman deservesthatfate.
My thoughts are cut short when the arrival doors open and my eyes start scanning the crowd of passengers impatiently .
The first thing I spot is her hair—that hair I couldn’t stop staring at on Christmas night. It’s just like I remember: loose waves falling messily over the front of her shirt. Long. White-blonde. Thick.
Her head is held high, and our eyes lock the moment the crowd clears.
And holy hell—she’s definitely not a teenager anymore.
Lilly was pretty two years ago . . . but now?
She’s fucking gorgeous.
Petite—not just compared to me, but to everyone around her. There’s something fragile about her build, and the pale tone of her skin gives her an almost ethereal glow.
A heart-shaped face, soft pink lips—full and tempting.
My pulse spikes. I know exactly why.
Just like the first time we met, my body reacts to hers.
