I closed my eyes and let myself sink into his warmth, trying not to think too hard about what it meant that I didn’t want him to go.
Connor
Twenty-twomoredays.
I stared at the spreadsheet on my screen, but the numbers blurred. Alex had finally set a date—December 3rd. The invitation hung on my refrigerator, with its cream cardstock and elegant script, making the whole thing suddenly, impossibly real.
And I'd get to see Hannah again.
“We just had a new listing over in TriBeCa,” Bonnie said from her perch on the edge of my desk. “Maybe we could meet there Sunday? Get coffee after?”
The office was empty except for us, fluorescent lights humming overhead. I should have gone home hours ago, but home was just a bland studio corporate rental, somber as a tomb.
“This weekend’s not great,” I said, not looking up from my screen.
“You’ve been saying that for weeks.” She leaned closer. “Come on, Connor. Just coffee.”
My phone buzzed with the name: Goldilocks.
My throat closed in fear. She’d never called before.
We’d texted a few times—confirming the wedding date, her thanking me for leaving good coffee in the apartment—but not a single phone call in the month since I’d left Saratoga.
My brain spiraled with things that could be wrong. Someone attacked her walking home from the bar at four a.m. She confronted her old boss and he retaliated. Sebastian found out where she was living. The stress finally crushed her and she—
I grabbed the phone. Bonnie was still close enough to hear, so I kept my voice warm and intimate. “Hey baby, everything okay?”
Bonnie mouthed, “Baby?”
I held the phone away from my ear to mouth back, “My girlfriend.”
She grabbed her bag with a muttered, “You could have said that,” and headed for the elevator.
“Fuckinggreat, baby.” Hannah’s voice slurred through the speaker. “Did you know ‘smy birthday?”
Not an emergency, just a good old Friday night drunk dial.
Relief flooded through me, followed immediately by something warmer when she laughed—this loose, unfiltered sound I’d never heard from her before.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” I said, shutting down my computer. Instead of the office feeling comforting, it suddenly just felt… empty. Like hearing her voice reminded me how alone I’d been. I grabbed my coat and headed for the elevators. “How are you celebrating?”
“Teresa took me out with her friends, and they’re all soyoung. They ordered body shots, Connor. Body shots. Where’s the dignity in that?”
I snorted, stepping outside into the early November cold. “How old are you turning?”
“My mother would tell you it’s rude to ask a woman her age.” Hannah’s voice got that sharp edge it always did when she talkedabout her parents. “Of course then she’d also tell you that by the time I turned thirty-five—thirty-fucking-five, by the way—I should be married with kids or some bullshit like that. If she had her way, I’d have kept my mouth shut and become Hannah fucking Callihan. Shoot me now.”
Something crashed in the background.
“Instead I’m sleeping on the couch like a teenager.”
“I told you to sleep in my bed,” I said, walking down the street toward my apartment.
“Yeah, yeah, I am. A metaphorical couch. The existential couch of life.” She let out a long sigh, her voice going rougher, raspier. “Why didn’t you come?”
I frowned, crossing at the light. “Where, your birthday party?”
“Yeah. That too.”
