My panicked mind scrambled for a denial, but nothing came. I just sat there, admitting it in silence.
Walter sighed, tapping his spoon against the rim of his bowl. “You young people don’t know what’s good for you. I love my grandson, but his dedication belongs to soccer. Anything else comes second. And with women—he’s had too many. You can’t appreciate anything when you’ve had too much of it.” He waved a hand dismissively, the prelude to turning off his hearing aid.
I set my spoon down. “It wasn’t like that.” Great time to get the ‘I’ in ‘it’ stuck in my throat ...
Walter made a noncommittal grunt and gave me a look that said he wasn’t buying it, but he wasn’t going to push either.
How many more people would I have to explain this to? This was the consequence of mixing romance with your closest circle. No clean break. No privacy. Just layers of opinions and concerned looks I never asked for.
He scooped another spoonful of yogurt, shaking his head.
My phone buzzed on the table. A text from Owen.
“Waiting to board. Can’t stop thinking about you.”
How long would that last?
Thanks, Walter, for poisoning my thoughts so soonafter he left.
I stared at the screen, fingers hovering. A moment ago, I would’ve told him I missed him. But now, all that came out was:
“Same. Safe flight. Walter sends his regards.”
His reply came almost instantly.
“Tell him I said thanks and that he can text me too, though he hates texting. And you—I already miss you.”
Stop being nice, Owen. We don’t even know if you’re coming back.
“He knows about us,”I started typing, then deleted the text and set the phone facedown on the table. I peeked at Walter and decided not to update Owen. Simon was enough to contend with.
At work, I caught myself glancing at the clock, calculating when he’d land, imagining what awaited him there. Would paparazzi be waiting? Would he feel different the moment he set foot back in London? Would everything here start fading for him already?
That first night, he video-called from his London apartment. I answered in the back room at work, stealing a quiet moment while the shop was empty.
His face filled my screen, blue eyes tired but bright. He turned the camera, showing me around his place—a tidy, modern bachelor pad. “My agent sent a service to clean it. They even replaced the dead plants.”
The tour ended up in his bedroom where he turned the camera back to himself, smirking. “You look delicious.” His gaze skimmed over whatever my phone’s camera showed of me, and heat curled low in my stomach.
He threw himself back on the large bed and held the camera over his face.
I laughed softly, shifting in my seat. “You’re exhausted, and yet you still have the energy to flirt.”
“With you? Always.”
His voice, his face, the way he looked at me—it should’ve eased the distance. Instead, it sharpened it.How long until this feels like a different life to him?
“Wish you weren’t at work right now,” he said, his voice timbering low and vibrating in my lower belly even through my device.
Absent-mindedly, I licked my lips, as if I was going to kiss him. “But I am.”
I looked at him in the middle of that large bed and wondered how many women he’d had there.
“I’m meeting my agent tomorrow. Then we have appointments lined up,” Owen said.
“Best of luck,” I replied, switching ‘good’ for ‘best of’ to avoid getting stuck on the G. The selfish part in me didn’t know which side I hoped luck would land—which outcome I was hoping for.
The next evening at my local time, my Google Alerts pinged with fresh headlines.
