But the knot in his chest wouldn't loosen.
Grant had almost told her. Had almost said he loved her, had almost asked her to stay for real, to figure out how to make this permanent.
But he'd chickened out. Told himself there would be time later. After she came back. After the holidays.
Now he lay in the dark, holding her close, and wondered if he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life.
I should have told her. Should have given her more reasons to come back.
But it was too late now. Tomorrow she'd leave, and all Grant could do was hope she'd keep her promise.
And hope he was enough to bring her home.
TWENTY-TWO
Riley
The train pulled into the city station at 9:34 a.m.
Riley shouldered her bag and joined the crush of commuters spilling onto the platform. The air smelled like exhaust and stale coffee and something vaguely chemical that she'd forgotten existed until now. After a week in Pine Valley, the city felt loud and crowded and wrong.
She checked her phone as she climbed the stairs. One text from Grant, sent an hour ago while she'd been underground.
Grant: Miss you already. Text me when the meeting starts.
Riley's chest tightened. She typed back quickly.
Riley: Just got here. Meeting at 10. I'll text you after.
She hit send and picked up her pace. The office was thirteen blocks away. If she walked fast, she'd make it with ten minutes to spare.
The building loomed ahead—forty stories of glass and steel that had once felt impressive but now just looked cold. Riley pushed through the revolving doors and nodded at the security guard, who looked surprised to see her.
"Ms. Monroe. Thought you were on vacation."
"So did I."
The elevator ride to the thirty-second floor felt endless. Riley checked her reflection in the mirrored walls—tired eyes, hastily applied makeup, hair pulled into a bun on the train. She looked like someone who'd been dragged back to work against her will.
Because she had been.
The doors opened onto the familiar chaos of the office. Phones ringing, people rushing between cubicles, the constant hum of productivity that never seemed to stop. Even on December 27th, the place was half-full.
Riley dropped her bag at her desk and headed for Conference Room B, where Sandra had said the meeting would be.
The room was already packed. A dozen people around the long table, Sandra at the head, a presentation projected on the wall. The client—a middle-aged man in an expensive suit—sat beside Sandra looking annoyed.
"Riley." Sandra's voice was clipped. "So glad you could join us."
"I'm sorry, I?—"
"Sit. We're just getting started."
Riley sat, pulling out her laptop and trying to look like she had any idea what was happening.
Sandra launched into the presentation without preamble. The campaign Riley's team had been working on for months—a product launch for a major beverage company—was apparently falling apart. The client had some concerns about the messaging. Wanted to discuss adjustments to the visual direction. Thought maybe they should reconsider the strategic approach.
Riley listened, taking notes, trying to understand the scope of the changes.
