Her voice is steady, but her hands are white-knuckled on the strap of her bag.
I arch a brow. “Most people call my office for that.”
“I couldn’t.” She swallows. “This needed to be private.”
There’s a ringing quiet behind her words, a tremor I don’t miss. I’ve never known Kamiyah to be a woman who trembles. Yet, this is the second time within the span of a week I’ve seen her unease.
I lean one shoulder against the door frame, letting my gaze deliberately drag over her. It’s a bad habit—and a worse instinct—but I want to see what she does with it. Does she blush? Flinch? Pretend she doesn’t feel the weight of my attention?
She inhales sharply, and her pulse flutters at the base of her throat.
Good.
At least I’m not the only one who felt the spark between us in the Haven Crest cafeteria. A spark I’d ignored years ago. I shrug, not wanting to think about the past anymore.
“Private,” I repeat. “Then come in.”
If she’s surprised I agreed, she hides it. Mostly. Her eyes widen the smallest bit as she steps past me.
Her scent hits me first.
Warm. Clean. A soft floral layered with something darker—amber, maybe. It threads beneath my skin, igniting a place I thought had frozen permanently three years ago. I swallow hard, watching her walk in like she belongs here.
She doesn’t.
She shouldn’t.
She turns, taking it in. Her brows lift. “No decorations?” she asks softly.
The building is decorated, of course—gleaming garlands, enormous wreaths, a foyer drenched in gold and silver. But up here, the penthouse is stark. High glass. Steel. Dark wood. Not a single strand of lights or sprig of holly.
I almost laugh. “I don’t do Christmas.”
“Anymore…” she murmurs, as if she didn’t mean for the word to escape.
I stiffen. Because yes—everybody knows the story. The town made sure of that.
The loss.
The breakup.
The mess of it all.
Kamiyah’s eyes flit to mine, apologetic. “Sorry. That was out of line.”
“It was accurate.” I gesture toward the living room. “Sit, if you’re staying.”
She walks with careful steps, her arms folded tightly across her chest, hugging herself like she’s freezing despite the mid December heat in Florida. Or trying to hold herself together.
That look—too soft, too vulnerable, like the one I glimpsed at Haven Crest—tightens something deep inside me.
I follow her, but remain standing, keeping a deliberate distance. She perches on the edge of the couch, back straight, eyes darting to me and away again. The shadows under her eyes tell me she hasn’t slept.
She’s scared.
Whatever brought her here… it’s big.
I fold my arms. “You said you have a proposition.”
