REED:I'm joking. Sort of. Not really.
JACE:I'm out too. Gotta call my publicist and figure out how to spin “man talks to married woman at charity event” into something less scandalous.
JACE:But seriously, Adams. Don't be a twat.
The chat goes quiet, and I'm left staring at the screen, their words echoing in my head.
Don't let that go because you're scared of getting hurt again.
You've been sleepwalking through your life.
Live a little.
I think about Rory's laugh. The way her eyes lit up when she talked about those ridiculous romance novels. How her hair caught the light from the twinkling Christmas decorations above the bar. The way she looked at me like I was someone worth taking a risk on.
The way I felt when I was with her—alive in a way I haven't felt in years.
And then I think about the note I left. The cowardice of walking away because it was safer than staying. Because stayingmeant risking something, and in the past four years, I've built my life around eliminating risk.
My jaw clenches as I grab my coat.
The reports can wait. The calls can wait.
Maybe it's time I stopped waiting too.
Baby steps, Adams.
I stride out of my office, and Jane glances up from her computer, her face shifting from surprise to something close to shock.
“Mr. Adams, I— Is there something you need?”
“I'm going out for lunch today.” The words feel foreign on my tongue, but I push forward anyway. “Hold my calls. I'll be back in an hour.”
Her eyes widen, but I'm already moving toward the lift, my heart hammering with something that feels dangerously close to hope.
I leave my flabbergasted assistant, unsure whether to be amused or offended by her reaction, and make my way down to the lobby, intent on walking to the Pret just around the corner. Quick, efficient, no fuss. Exactly my speed.
The December air bites at my face as I step out onto the bustling street, my mind already cataloguing the tedious meetings ahead of me upon my return. I'm just about to turn left toward the familiar red and white storefront when I hear it—the aggressive ring of a bicycle bell followed by a bellow.
“Oi, watch it, lady!”
Instinct kicks in before thought does.
I lunge forward, and my arm shoots out to grab whoever's about to become roadkill. Then I swiftly yank them backward against my chest just as a cyclist in high-vis barrels past, close enough that I feel the whoosh of air.
“Fucking tourists!” the cyclist shouts over his shoulder, not slowing down.
“Piss off, you prick.” I yell back, my heart hammering.
The person in my arms lets out a shaky laugh. “Well, that was—”
I freeze as I inhale sharply, and that intoxicatingly familiar scent hits me—vanilla and cinnamon. The same scent that clung to my skin this morning, that I begrudgingly showered away after leaving her sleeping. My grip on her waist tightens involuntarily at the memory.
Looking down, I see icy-blonde hair spilling out from beneath a knit hat, and blue eyes staring up at me in shock. Those same eyes that looked up at me last night while she was on her knees, while I buried myself deep inside her, while she came apart in my arms. Her face is tilted up toward mine, close enough that I can see those navy-blue flecks sparkling in the winter light.
Close enough that muscle memory screams at me to claim her mouth the way I did mere hours ago.
Close enough to do precisely that if I just lower my head a fraction of an inch.
