I follow her in, nerves raw and buzzing.
She’s practically glowing. “I just got off the phone with the Defenders. They’ve requested you to travel with them to the West Coast. Five days—Montreal, Vancouver, Seattle. Three games. Nate needs continuity in treatment.” Her eyes sparkle with excitement. “They’re paying top dollar for this, Eden. This is huge for our practice. For you. It will put youon the map; you could be opening your own doors even this year.”
A laugh slips out, half disbelieving, half overwhelmed. “You realize you’re the only business owner in Manhattan who cheers when her staff talks about starting a competing practice?”
Melissa waves me off, smiling. “Competing? Please. There are enough elite clients in this city to keep us both booked solid for life. This isn’t competition; it’s growth. We’ll be supporting each other, sending referrals back-and-forth, building something bigger than either of us could do alone.” She leans in, eyes kind. “I want to see you succeed, Eden. Truly. You deserve this. It will be good for both of us.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. That’s Melissa—big-hearted, steady, always moving with the current instead of against it. She makes it sound simple. In her worldview, success is inevitable if I just let myself believe it.
She keeps going, oblivious to the way my stomach knots tighter with every word. “We’ll reshuffle your other clients, probably cover most of it with overtime. This is huge, Eden. You’ll crush it.”
“Five days?” The words scrape out, barely more than a whisper.
Melissa nods, still glowing. “Exactly. You leave the day after tomorrow. The kind of exposure this brings? We’ll be swimming in athlete referrals.”
I nod because it’s the only thing my body remembers how to do. My brain’s gone static, everything blurring together. When I step out of her office, I fumble for my phone, fingers trembling as I type a text.
Eden
Really, Nate?
And again, the response comes instantly.
Nate
Yes, really. We’ll head to the airport together in the morning.
My heart slams against my ribs. This is too fast. Too much. There will be nowhere to run.
Another ping, as if he’s reading my mind.
Nate
Don’t worry. We’ll start slow. I have plenty of guest rooms.
Oh well, now I’m totally fine,I think bitterly, panic clawing up my throat.
When I walk back into the hallway, the clinic feels too bright and too quiet for my frayed nervous system. Tomorrow, I’m going to his house. In two days, I’ll be on a plane with him.
The rational part of me whispers this is good. Professional. Career changing. But the part still feeling the weight of his hands, the heat of his breath, knows I’m in far moretrouble than I can handle.
The Uber winds through quiet,tree-lined streets, a world away from Manhattan. Tarrytown is calmer, slower, but the knot in my stomach only tightens the closer we get. When the car pulls up to Nate’s house, I have to force myself to breathe.
The place is exactly what I should have expected—modern and sleek, with big glass panes catching the late-afternoon light. It’s minimalist to the point of intimidating: clean lines, no clutter, a home where everything inside has a purpose.
I step out, thank the driver with a voice that barely works, and walk up the stone path to the door. My hand trembles as I lift it.
The door swings open before I can knock twice. Was Nate waiting? He fills the frame—broad shoulders, damp hair, clean scent of soap on warm skin. Heat rolls off him, forearms corded, throat shadowed with stubble. He looks maddeningly at ease; my pulse tries to punch out of my throat.
His eyes sweep over me in one slow pass, landing on the empty space beside me. The corner of his mouth curves, not in a smile—amusement maybe. “No suitcase?”
My stomach twists. “What?”
He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, voice low. “You were supposed to bring a suitcase. For the trip tomorrow. We are leaving in the morning together.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I thought you were joking.”
“Hmm.” His gaze holds mine. The air between us hums, thick and charged. My lips part, but no sound comes out. Then a slow, dangerous smile curves his mouth. “You’re a brat, aren’t you? Testing the limits?”
