Is that the magic of having this girl in my life?
Uncurbed, unbidden, my thoughts follow my baser instincts.
My eyes go lower—automatically, damn near helplessly—to sweep over the rest of her.
The fragile jut of her collarbone.
The firm swell of her breasts under the tank.
The lush flare of her hips, long coltish legs, the tight, round curves of her…
I shut down the thought, but it’s too late.
When did I register all these things about her? The precise rise and fall of her curves? Of how sinuously she moves and how her voice lowers to a husky pitch in the mornings and late at night?
Fuck, I should feel like a pervert. But I don’t.
All this… knowledge of Jasmine is in my veins. My bones. Not just my eyes.
She ducks her head slightly when she notices my gaze land on the large birthmark on her cheek.
Sophie confided in me once that while Jasmine didn’t care about the birthmark, people made her conscious about it. Eitherthey shied away from looking at her fully or advised her to get it fixed or faded.
Even the idea of some asshole suggesting she change herself makes anger burn in my chest. Like everything else about her, the birthmark only makes her different. Distinct.
If anything, it brings into keener contrast her quiet, striking beauty, her calm nature that doesn’t require attention or approval. Maybe that’s why I never registered the two decades of age gap between us.
“Go wake up Sophie,” I say, opening a kitchen drawer. My voice comes out flat, dismissive.
Jasmine’s slender shoulders stiffen.
“It’s Tuesday, right?” I add, pitching my voice softer. “Won’t our princess grace us with her presence at breakfast usually?”
She gives me a hesitant smile and pushes off from the island with that sloping grace I know like the back of my hand.
My breath rattles out of me as the space empties of her scent, her sinuous curves, and her shining spirit.
And I realize I’m completely fucked.
I busy myselfwith setting the table, even though the last thing I feel like is eating. My movements are too sharp, too quick, and I nearly catch my finger in a damned drawer.
I close my eyes as I reach the dining table, trying to shake the restless energy building under my skin. The morning sun is warm and bright on my face, and I force myself to take a few breaths.
This disquiet over the idea of Jasmine leaving forces me to face other stuff I’ve been pushing away.
Everything’s felt slightly off lately. Not wrong. Just... muffled. As if I’m moving through water.
My routines are intact. Business is thriving. Deals are closing. Sophie’s health is stable. But I wake up most mornings wondering if I’ve missed something I can’t name. As if something I want is right out of my grasp and yet I can’t reach for it.
My brilliant half-brother Zayn would say it’s burnout. Or boredom. Or some other new-age bullshit I don’t understand.
Except he’s not the recluse he used to be.
He’s married to the love of his life now and they’re expecting their first child soon.
And the way he looks at his wife Sasha—like she hung the fucking moon—did something to me. Twisted me up.
Made everything else in my life feel… empty. Sterile. Purposeless.
