I miss him when I hear his voice and it’s not in my ear but over the phone.
I miss him when one of the kids says something that would make him laugh, when I catch myself reaching for my phone just to tell him.
And at night—always at night—I miss him most. The sheets cool beside me, the other pillow untouched. That’s when the ache settles in.
I tell myself the distance is good. Healthy, even. It keeps things light, manageable. Keeps me from falling too fast, too hard. Because if I let go—if I give him everything—it would be so easy to lose myself in Sam. Easier than it ever was with Pete.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
Because Sam isn’t just someone I want. He’s someone I could love.
And if this thing between us ever burned out, I’m not sure there’d be anything left of me but ash.
It’s Labor Day weekend, and I’m minutes from Sam’s. Paige is with her father, and Drew’s up at a friend’s cottage before heading back to school. Last night, I squeezed in one more evening with them—pizza, movies, and Drew’s sarcastic humor filling the room like it always has. I tried not to think about how quiet the house would feel when he’s gone. Most likely, I won’t see him again until Thanksgiving.
Leaving my car at Sam’s, I grab an Uber downtown to meet him. The bar on Crescent is crowded and humming with energy, laughter spilling out onto the street. Inside, I spot him right away—broad shoulders, easy smile, that magnetic stillness that somehow commands a room.
And then I see her.
Yasmine Thibault, draped over him like a silk scarf. Her manicured hand rests on his forearm, her head tilted up in that practiced way that sayslook at me, I’m desirable.My stomach churns, queasy and hot.Back off, b.
Both of them spot me at once. Yasmine’s smile falters, her fingers sliding off him as Sam rises. He doesn’t hesitate—just moves toward me with that warmth that’s all his.
No matter how certain I am of Sam—of us—the sight of her always unnerves me, if only for a split second. I haven’t seen much of her since that dinner when she cornered me and warned that I might cost Sam their investment, but whenshe does appear, she makes sure I don’t forget. Every word, every sideways glance feels like a reminder that she holds some invisible leverage.
I told Sam about her little threat. He just laughed it off, told me she was bluffing. He’s still undecided about the Thibault investment, which, as I pointed out, might be his answer right there. If you can’t sayyes, maybe it’s already ano.Bas agrees with me. He always does.
“Montrésor.” His name for me rolls off his tongue like silk and I quiver, the sensation intensifying when his lips brush mine, then my neck. “God, it’s fucking fantastic to have you in my arms.”
My heartbeat tumbles into chaos as I melt into him. His breath skims my skin, and heat gathers low in my belly.
“Sam.” His names slides out on a breath, half sigh, half plea.
He pulls back just enough to study me, his sharp, intuitive gaze finding the truth before I can hide it. “What’s wrong?”
My throat tightens. “Nothing.” My response rushes out too fast, too brittle. The flicker of irritation from seeing Yasmine lingers, faint but impossible to hide.
He searches my face, his eyes lingering on my mouth, lips curving as they darken with heat. He knows the effect he has on me, and maybe he’s using it now, on purpose.
“We’ll go soon. I don’t want them here either.”
He knows me too damn well.
“Samson, my turn.” Bas’s grin lights up his tired features. His arms open wide, and I can’t help but smile as I move into his hug.
He seems thinner than the last time I saw him, his frame more fragile beneath my hands, and it guts me. The smell of his aftershave, spicy and familiar, clings faintly to his shirt, and for a moment, I just hold him, pretending he’s as strong as he was a couple of months ago.
I love this man. I’ve only known him a short while, but he’s woven himself into my heart with that same quiet grace his son carries. It hurts to see him fading, and worse still, to see Sam trying to shoulder it all. He’s so steady for everyone else, but I’ve caught the moments when his smile falters, when sorrow flickers in his eyes like a shadow he can’t quite hide.
My man is hurting.
And all we can do is pray for time, how much or how little, none of us know.
“Bas, how are you?” My hand rests on his arm.
“Ma chérie,I’m wonderful now that you’re here.” His gruff voice holds his trademark warmth that never fails to make me smile. Then, leaning close, he adds under his breath, “Help me, let’s get out of here.”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, and he joins in, our amusement drawing curious glances from the Thibaults. Yasmine’s eyes narrow just slightly, her lips twitching like she’s trying to decode the joke she isn’t in on.
