“I know,” Portia replied.
We talked through more logistics. Numbers. Timelines. There was comfort in it—my old world reasserting itself. By the time we hung up, my hands had stopped shaking.
But when I opened the office door and stepped back into the shop, my calm evaporated.
Because the bell over the front door chimed.
And for one suspended second, my body reacted like it recognized a predator.
Heat. Low and immediate.
My pulse jumped, fast and traitorous, before my eyes even found the source.
It wasn’t him.
Just a man in khakis holding a birthday card, looking nervous.
My breath came out shaky anyway.
Britney glanced at me from behind the counter, brow raised, and I forced a smile so hard my face ached.
Get it together, Joy.
But my body didn’t listen.
It had learned something.
It had learned that there were men who looked at you and saw sweetness.
And there were men who looked at you and saw surrender.
And once you knew the difference, you couldn’t unknow it.
Later, when the shop was quiet again, I found myself standing by the front windows, staring out at the sidewalk.
As if part of me expected to see him there.
Watching.
Judging.
Deciding.
My cheeks warmed at the thought, a mix of shame and something darker.
I pressed my fingertips to the cool glass.
I was still a virgin.
Still untouched.
Still the same girl who grew up on Wadmalaw Island learning how to deadhead roses and balance ledgers.
But something inside me had changed.
Not because I’d been kissed.
Not because I’d been claimed.
