She leaned in then—not for my mouth, but for my cheek. It was a soft press of her lips that was over before I could process it.
“I’ll see you Thursday,” she whispered against my skin.
Then she was walking away, her heels clicking against the marble as she headed toward the exit, leaving me standing there like an idiot in the middle of my own lobby.
I took the watch out of the box. I tucked it into my breast pocket. It sat over my heart for the rest of the damn day.
Chapter 48
Julian
Thursday she made me lunch. Today on Saturday, shepicked me up in a town car.
She was in a backless emerald gown that should have been illegal. She looked like sin and salvation rolled into one.
“Where are we going?” I asked, sliding in beside her.
“It’s a surprise.”
We went to a private jazz club. She’d rented out the entire balcony. There was a quartet playing, soft and low, and a bottle of my favorite bourbon was already on the table.
“How did you know about this place?” I asked. It was a spot I loved but rarely talked about.
“Your mother may have mentioned you come here.” She poured two glasses and handed me one. “I listen, Julian. I always have.”
We listened to the music. We didn’t talk much. She’d rest her hand on my knee under the table, possessively. She’d brush my hair back from my forehead if it fell forward. Every touch was an unspoken claim, a reversal of the years I spent trying to claim her.
When the set ended, she stood, holding out her hand. “Dance with me.”
“There’s no dance floor.”
“There is now,” she said, leading me to the small, cleared space in front of the band.
The music started again—a jazz rendition of Masego’s "Navajo." It was one of my favorite songs, one she had introduced me to years ago. I wanted to laugh because it was another part of life I wouldn’t have known without her.
I held her, my hand on the bare skin of her back. The warmth of her skin under my palm felt like coming home after a long, cold war.
“I’m not going to break, you know,” I muttered into her hair, fighting the urge to pull her closer. “I’m still mad. I just had nothing else to do tonight.”
“I know,” she whispered back, her lips close to my ear. “Just dance, Julian. We’ll worry about the rest later...”
Chapter 49
Julian
After Saturday night’s dancing, I woke up to her knocking on my door Sunday morning, clutching shopping bags.
An hour later, I looked down at myself and then back at Elara, and for the first time in my life, I felt truly, objectively ridiculous. We were wearing matching outfits. Beige chinos and crisp white polo shirts. It was the "wealthy suburban dad" starter kit. Elara Vance—a woman who usually looked like she’d been carved out of obsidian and silk—looked corny. She had her hair in a severe bun, and her only jewelry was a pair of pearl earrings. She looked like she belonged on a 1990s travel brochure, and I fucking loved it.
"You look like you’re about to sell me a timeshare," I joked, tugging at my own collar as we stepped out into the humid heat of Sarasota.
"Shut up, Julian," she sassed, adjusting her sunglasses. "You mentioned this place. You said you wanted to pick strawberries and taste local liquor like 'normal people.' So, we’re being normal. These outfits are normal."
I laughed and followed her. The orchard was a lush green labyrinth of fruit and heavy Florida air. We spent hours in the sun, staining our finger red with strawberries and just breathing.
"If you weren't filthy rich, and a whole different Julian, what would you be doing?" she asked out of nowhere.
I didn't have to think about it. "I’d find you in this imaginary world of yours, then marry you," I replied, pulling a stray leaf from her hair. "I’d stay home and be a father. If the money was gone, I’d just want to nurture something. I’d want to watch something grow."
