Except for one thing—the faint trace of perfume in the air. Not hers. Something heavier. Masculine. Familiar in a way I can’t place.
She’s rinsing a mug when I say, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, too quickly. “Just tired.”
I glance toward the empty counter. The flowers are gone.
Before I can ask, she smiles—too bright, too rehearsed—and nudges a plate toward me. “Eat. You’ve got a long day.”
Her voice trembles just enough for me to notice.
I don’t push. I should, but I don’t.
As I leave for practice, she locks the door behind me. And for the first time, I realize she double-checks it.
Chapter 15
Closing In
Sage
The flowers are gone,but the scent won’t leave. It clings to the air, to my hair, to the inside of my nose like a ghost that doesn’t know it’s dead. Every time I breathe, I swear I can still catch a trace of Grayson’s cologne—sharp, expensive, suffocating.
I grip the knife tighter, slicing through carrots like they’ve offended me. The rhythmic chop should calm me—it usually does—but my hands won’t stay steady. The knife slips once, catching on the board with a sharpcrackthat makes me flinch.
Leo’s voice drifts from behind me. “You always prep like you’re about to fight a war?”
I force a laugh that doesn’t sound like me. “It’s just meal prep.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, fresh from the gym. His hoodie is half unzipped, hair damp from a shower, that familiar mix of sweat and soap cutting through the phantom cologne still haunting me. His gaze flicks from my trembling hands to my too-tight jaw.
“What’s going on?” he asks, softer this time.
“Nothing.” I switch knives like that’ll fix the shaking. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t move, but I can feel him watching. The silence stretches, heavy and full of questions I don’t want to answer. Finally, he exhales through his nose, the sound low and resigned. “Right. Because you always nearly slice your thumb off when you’re fine.”
“I said I’m fine, Leo.” The words come out sharper than I mean. I toss the carrots into a container, the lid snapping too loud in the quiet kitchen.
He doesn’t bite back, which almost makes it worse. He just mutters something under his breath and grabs his keys from the counter. “I’ll be late tonight. Team meeting.”
The door shuts before I can respond.
The sound echoes longer than it should. I stare at the half-chopped vegetables, my chest tight, the scent of his cologne already fading into the one I can’t escape.
I press my palms flat on the counter to stop the shaking. It doesn’t work.
By the time I get to work, I’ve practiced my smile so much my cheeks ache. The café hums with its usual chaos—steam hissing, espresso grinding, music too loud for a Monday morning. Familiar, safe noise.
Maya’s already behind the counter, hair in a messy braid. She pulls a tray of croissants from the oven. “Morning, sunshine,” she says, grinning. “You look like you slept in a blender.”
“Thanks,” I say, slipping on my apron. “That’s the look I was going for.”
She laughs, but it softens when she really looks at me. “You okay? You’ve been spaced out all week. I called your name, like, three times before you even looked up yesterday.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, reaching for a stack of to-go cups. The motion feels mechanical—grab, stack, straighten—but my hands still tremble.
Maya tilts her head, lowering her voice. “You’re not still letting Grayson get under your skin, are you?”
