“I won’t come back,” I cut in evenly, “unless you choose me.”
I walked toward the elevator.
Didn’t look back.
Because this time—
If Creed Kirkland followed, it would be as a man who decided.
Not a man who waited too long.
* * *
ON TUESDAY, I CALLEDin sick.
By Wednesday morning, the office knew I wasn’t coming in all week.
Celine handled it cleanly—calendar updated, meetings rerouted, my inbox filtered.Officially, I was working remotely due to a family illness.
Unofficially?
Aunt Ruth was battling a cold.After my encounter with Creed in the parking garage, it felt like the perfect time to put the needs of my family first.And my own.
Creed called twice before noon.
I didn’t answer.
He texted me once.
Where are you?
I stared at the screen longer than necessary before replying.
Working from home.
If you need anything, reach out to my assistant.
Professional.Polite.Closed.
I set the phone face down on the kitchen counter and didn’t touch it again.
Aunt Ruth’s bedroom smelled faintly of eucalyptus and honey, the kind of soft, medicinal comfort that carried childhood memories and steady hands.She was propped up against a stack of pillows, wrapped in one of her old quilts, cheeks flushed from fever but eyes still sharp.
I carried the tray carefully—tea, lemon, and a spoon balanced on the saucer.
“Careful,” she teased weakly.“You’d think you were diffusing a bomb.”
“Given the last few weeks,” I said, setting the cup on her bedside table, “I’m qualified.”
She smiled, then studied me the way she always did—quiet, assessing, seeing straight through whatever armor I thought I was wearing.
“You’re still home,” she said.It wasn’t a question.
“I’m working,” I corrected.“And helping you.”
She lifted a brow.“I feel fine.It’s nothing a few days of rest and hydration can’t cure.”
“I needed a change of scenery.”
