“Okay.”The word escapes me as a whisper, my mind caught in the force of his gaze.
“Nice seeing you, Lou,” Matthew offers, tone clipped, already turning toward the hallway.
“You as well,” Lou calls out warmly after him.
I turn back to Lou, trying to gather my scattered thoughts and force a smile, but then Matthew’s words slam into my brain.
My office.
My suitcase.
Panic flares, icy and sharp.
“Excuse me, Lou,” I say in a rush, pushing my chair back.I place a hand on his arm to steady my shaky legs.
Lou looks from Matthew’s retreating figure back to my distressed face.A knowing smile touches his lips, eyes twinkling with fond amusement.
Oh, if only he knew.
He sees me flustered by a man’s attention.He has no idea I’m hiding evidence of my life falling apart.
“Of course, dear girl.Go ahead,” he says warmly, picking up his newspaper.“Don’t keep the young man waiting.”
Heart pounding, I hurry after Matthew.My footsteps echo my panic as I round the corner into the hallway and spot him just ahead, his hand already on the doorknob.
“Matt, stop!”
He spins around.His intensity transforms into sharp concern.He scans my face, taking in my breathless state.
“What’s wrong?”he asks, taking a step toward me.
Think, Amy, think!
My mind scrambles.My hand flutters to my throat.“I don’t… I can’t…” I stammer, gesturing back to the main area.“It-it’s still really busy out front.”The excuse sounds flimsy even to me.“I don’t have time for this right now.Sorry.”
Matthew watches me.His gaze is perceptive.
He glances past me toward the empty front counter, his concern deepening with frustration.“What is this really about?”
I shake my head.“Nothing.I just wasn’t expecting you.”I shut my eyes briefly.
“Well, I happened to be in the area.”He slides his hands into his pockets, trying to contain his restless energy.“And after the way we left things yesterday… I needed to see you.”
Happened to be in the area.
The casual phrase feels instantly wrong.It lands with a sickening thud of familiarity, instantly transporting me back.
James.
His smooth, practiced voice using those exact words.The drop-ins that were never just drop-ins.They were checks.Calculated moves disguised as spontaneity.The memory of that constant, low-level manipulation flares hot inside me.
“Funny,” I say, the word tasting like acid.“That’s exactly the kind of thing James used to say.You both are so alike in—”
“Don’t,” he bites out, his voice terrifyingly quiet, stripped bare of any warmth, vibrating with a tightly leashed tension.“Don’t youever”—his voice drops, heavy with pain—“compare me to him.”
He stiffens, recoiling half a step as if warding off an attack.Color drains from his face.A muscle jumps near his temple.When his eyes finally meet mine again, they are flat and cold.Like shields have slammed down, locking everything away.
Seeing him shut down.That frigid look in his eyes.And hearing the pain vibrating beneath his controlled words…
