I turn to the mirror, and for a moment, I just stare.
My hair is a mess, pulled back in a haphazard bun.My face is pale, with dark circles under my eyes, a testament to too many sleepless nights.Regardless, I decide on a simple approach.A touch of concealer, a light layer of foundation, mascara, and a swipe of blush pink lipstick.Enough to look presentable, but not so much that it feels like a mask.I pull my hair out of the bun and brush it, letting it fall in loose waves around my shoulders.
It’s softer this way, less severe.
The woman staring back at me in the mirror is still tired, still hurting, but there’s something else there too.
A flicker of determination.
A spark of defiance.
The green dress, the simple makeup, the loose hair… it’s a start.It’s my way of saying,“I’m still here.I’m still fighting.”And for tonight, that’s enough.
Slipping my feet into the nude stilettos at the foot of the bed, I grab the matching purse and take one final look in the mirror.
“This is me,” I mumble, before leaving the empty room.
The drive to the hotel is short, but each block feels like a mile.My hands grip the steering wheel a little too tightly.My pulse throbs in my neck.I force myself to breathe, trying to channel the woman in the mirror, the one who decided to fight.
Two left-hand turns, and the Edgewater Hotel rises before me.A modern building faced with light stone, large windows reflecting the city lights.The hotel name glows above a recessed entrance, spilling a welcoming, golden light onto the pavement.It feels a world away from the quiet, empty café and from the cold, sterile apartment I just left.
I pull into the first available parking spot, my eyes immediately drawn to the illuminatedStatehouse Restaurantsign.
He’s in there.
Willing my heart to slow down, I press a hand against my chest, forcing myself to inhale, then exhale slowly.I grab my purse and the blue folder and get out.With jittery fingers, I smooth down my dress.The cool evening air hits my skin, a refreshing change from the stifling tension inside me.Crossing the parking lot, I climb the stairs to the restaurant entrance, clutching the blue folder like a shield.
The glass doors slide open.I am greeted by lively chatter and the softest music.Gone is the tension of the drive and the chill evening air.Here, everything is inviting.The mellow glow of wall fixtures and drum-shaped chandeliers illuminates the space, highlighting the dark wood paneling.The teal chairs provide a vibrant pop of color against the warm browns and golds of the room.Through the large windows, the dark expanse of the lake glitters with reflected city lights.
The scent of something savory drifts from the open kitchen.I lift my chin, a silent refusal to surrender to the nerves twisting in my stomach.
Did he even expect me to come?
I never replied.
With that uncertainty swirling, I approach the hostess stand.
A brunette with a polished smile looks up.“Good evening,” she says, her voice professionally welcoming.“Do you have a reservation, Miss?”
I take a breath, but the words catch in my throat.I feel a tremor in my hand as I clutch the blue folder.“I’m meeting someone.Matthew Warren.”My voice sounds a little too high but steadier than I feel.“He should be here,” I add with slight hesitation.
“Of course.Mr.Warren is waiting for you.Right this way.”
The hostess leads me through the restaurant, toward the windows in the back.As we approach, I see him.He is standing near a table set for two, his back to me, talking to a waiter.He gestures with one hand, a movement that is both authoritative and graceful.Even from this distance, I can see the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck.
My heart gives a rebellious flutter.
Apprehension, anticipation, and something else I can’t quite put my finger on.
The waiter nods at something Matthew says and moves away.
“Mr.Warren,” the hostess says, her voice carrying just enough to reach him.“Your guest is here.”
He turns.
THIRTEEN
TIME STOPS.
