Who said anything about marriage?
Again, my age is showing.
We’re back to texting, talking, sending photos of random meals and inside jokes that make no sense to anyone but us.
Somehow, that invisible shield between us—whatever safety net keeps things in balance—is back in place now that we’re in our own cities, in our own worlds.
Distance, it turns out, is safer. Cleaner.
It’s easier to pretend the feelings don’t run as deep when you can’t reach out and touch them.
Ironically, what also helped was my conversation with Yasmine Thibault. Not that I suddenly like her. I don’t. Although she did manage to shift something in me.
She reminded me of exactly where Sam and I stand.
That night at the restaurant, she wasted no time. The moment Daniel whisked Sam away to “see the wine cellar,” Yasmine turned her laser focus on me.
“Sam and I were in Vancouver together this week.” She was aiming for casual, but there was no doubt this was calculated.
I masked my surprise. Sam had mentioned Vancouver, sure, but nother.
“I’m not sure what you think is going on between you and Sam.” She swirled her wine like a Bond villain. “But you’re not cut out for his world. You don’t know the first thing about being a chef—or acelebritychef, at that. Sam’s wildly successful. He needs someone who can support him, who fits that life. Really, Olivia, you’re not the one.”
Her words were smooth, rehearsed, and dripping with condescension.
God, she was vile. Not just petty or jealous, but ugly in that quiet, poisonous way some people are when they believe they’re untouchable. Beneath all the blonde and blue-eyed polish, she was a snake in designer heels.
“Yasmine, whatever’s going on between Sam and me isn’t your concern.”
She smiled, sharp and joyless. “Stop fooling yourself. You’re too old, you live in different cities, and you don’t understand what Sam needs. What’sgoodfor him. I can give him that. My father and I will give him what he needs”—she paused, eyes glinting— “or maybe we won’t.”
My stomach tightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Sam needs an investor.” She gave a little shrug, like she was talking about the weather. “He wants us, and we want him. But maybe…we don’t. Maybe his business venture would look a whole lot more attractive if a certain older mother of two walked away. If you really care about him, Olivia—if you want his dreams to come true—leave him alone.”
The curl of her lips was the final twist of the knife.
Her glaze gleamed with a false sweetness. “I can even set you up with someone your own age, if you’re really hard up.”
Even now, the memory makes my skin crawl. I actually shudder.
I shake my head to clear it, refusing to give her space in my thoughts. But the truth is, she got to me. Not because I believe her, but because I believesomeof what she said. Sam and I do live in different cities. His world spins faster than mine. And maybe I’m kidding myself thinking I can keep up or that I even should.
So, yes, Yasmine Thibault was cruel. But she reminded me of something I keep trying to forget.
This is supposed to be fun.
No labels.
No promises.
And if I keep repeating it enough times, maybe I’ll start to believe it.
Over the past two weeks, Sam and I have been busy, too busy. Our conversations have dwindled to short texts and the occasional phone call squeezed in between meetings or late nights.
The Preston Hotel project is moving forward at warp speed, and I’ve been living on caffeine, deadlines, and takeout. Sam’s been just as swamped, splitting himself between Bas, his existing restaurants, and the plans for his new one.
There’s still the question of funding hanging over him like a storm cloud, but I don’t ask. If I had the money, I’d hand it over without hesitation, no questions asked. But I don’t. And even if I did…there’s only one person I know who could actually help.
