I can’t help but root for their success. “He must be working overtime to perfect the campaign.”
Wendy nods, then seamlessly transitions to weekend plans and office gossip. We order a plate of miniature lemon tarts that disappear embarrassingly fast between our conversations. Time slips away like sand through fingers, and before I realize it, the windows have darkened with evening’s approach.
Draining the last sip of my second latte, I glance at my watch. “I should probably head back if I want to catch the bus.”
Just as we push through the café‘s glass door into the lobby, Jake strides toward us.
“He usually grabs coffee around this time,” Wendy murmurs, eyes twinkling with mischief.
My jaw drops. “Wendy, did you orchestrate—“
“Would you look at the time!” she exclaims, checking her bare wrist. “So much to do before tomorrow’s deadline!” She waves cheerfully at Jake as she scurries past him, abandoning me without a backward glance.
Jake stops directly in front of me, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes cautiously hopeful. “Want to grab something to eat?”
“I just demolished half a plate of lemon tarts with Wendy,” I admit, tucking my hair behind one ear. “Plus, it’s getting late. I don’t want to miss the last bus.”
“I can drive you,” he offers, jingling his keys. “My car’s in the garage.”
The practical side of my brain—the side that doesn’t want to wait forty minutes to arrive at home—overrules my self-preservation instincts. “That would be great, actually. Thanks.”
His midnight blue Audi gleams under the parking garage lights as we approach it. Inside, the leather seats and subtle pine scent feel intimate, like stepping into a piece of his personal world—which I now realize how much I’ve missed.
As Jake backs out of the parking space, I search for neutral conversation. “How’s the campaign coming along?”
“We’re making progress,” he says, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “I think we have a fighting chance at winning. I just—“ He hesitates. “I wish you were still with us. The whole concept was your vision.”
“It’s not your fault I got transferred,” I tell him. “And for what it’s worth, I hope you win.”
The words about Tim’s suspicious anniversary party conversation sit at the tip of my tongue, demanding to be spoken, but I swallow them back like bitter medicine. Starting another confrontation when we’re finally having a civil moment would be like purposely steering into a ditch when the road is finally clear—especially when all I have are suspicions without a single screenshot of proof.
Sitting in Jake’s car, smelling his cologne, and looking at the way his fingers tap the steering wheel when he’s thinking stirs memories I had long suppressed.
We used to drive for hours without a destination, claiming the highways as our personal playground. Back then, the simple act of being alone together in his car created some of our most cherished moments. The windows would be rolled down, music blasting through his speakers while we sang until our throats were raw. I’d perform like I was headlining Madison SquareGarden, complete with dramatic hand gestures and questionable high notes. Jake would headbang beside me as if he’d scored front-row seats at a rock concert.
We always fought over the radio station—his loyalty to classic rock clashing with my embarrassing obsession with poppy boy bands. After countless playful arguments, Jake would inevitably surrender with an exaggerated sigh and let me choose.
I crack open the window now, letting cool evening air slip inside as I reach for the radio dial. At that exact moment, Jake’s hand moves toward the same target, our fingers colliding in the small space between us. Instinctively, I pull my hand back as if burned. Jake catches it before I can retreat completely, his warm fingers wrapping around mine with surprising gentleness.
The softness of his touch sends goosebumps racing up my arm and across my shoulders. I swallow hard, trying to convince myself this is no big deal—just two ex-lovers accidentally reaching for a radio at the same time. Warmth creeps up my neck and floods my cheeks in what I’m sure is the most attractive shade of tomato red.
After all these years, I’d forgotten how perfectly my hand fits in his, how small my fingers look intertwined with his longer ones. From the corner of my eye, I steal a glance at his profile. His lips curve upward slightly, and something flutters in my stomach—something I refuse to acknowledge as butterflies because I am a grown professional woman, not a teenager. Unable to fight my own smile any longer, I surrender to this stolen moment of connection.
My gaze travels to our joined hands. “Who gave you permission to hold my hand?”
“You did,” he says, laughing softly. “A long time ago, you were quite generous with it.”
“That permission is revoked,” I reply quickly. “Effective immediately.”
“Is there a contract I should sign that explains all this in great detail?” he asks, thumb brushing over my knuckles.
“I’ll draw one up tomorrow,” I say.
“Who gave you permission to make all the rules?” He shoots me a side glance.
“You did.” I meet his eyes. “A long time ago.”
Jake grips my hand tighter. “Touché.”
