I pulled into her building's parking lot, cut the engine, and sat there for a moment, watching her sleep.
Three months, I reminded myself.That's the deal. Three months, and then this ends.
Except I was already dreading the ending. Already calculating how to extend this arrangement. Already looking for reasons to see her beyond what our agreement required.
I touched her shoulder. "Willow."
She stirred. Blinked. Looked around with the disoriented confusion of someone surfacing from deep sleep. "We're here?"
"Home safe."
She sat up, rubbed her eyes. "Sorry. I didn't mean to pass out on you."
"You were tired."
"You drove all day. You're probably tired too."
"I'm fine."
She gathered her things—purse, coat, the bag containing her book. Her hand paused on the door handle.
"Today was..." She trailed off. Tried again. "I had a good time."
"So did I."
"Falling down on ice and eating too much pasta. Pretty good day, actually.”
“It was,” I agreed.
She smiled. Not the bright, performative smile she used for customers. Not the sharp, defensive smile she aimed at me when we were bickering. This smile was real. Warm. A little bit vulnerable.
"Thank you," she said. "For the book. For all of it."
"You're welcome."
She got out. Walked to her building. Turned at the door and waved—a small gesture, almost shy—before disappearing inside.
The rational part of my brain was screaming. This was a mistake. The whole thing was a mistake. I was developing feelings for a woman seventeen years younger than me, a woman I was fake-dating for business purposes, a woman who deserved better than a workaholic with a failed marriage and a fractured relationship with his only child.
I should end this. Should call her tomorrow and say the arrangement wasn't working, that we should go back to bickering over coffee and pretending we meant nothing to each other.
I should.
I wouldn't.
Graham was right. Willow is a dangerous distraction I didn’t need.
And the worst part—the part I couldn't admit to anyone, barely even to myself—was that I didn’t want to stop.
I wanted more.
So much more.
seven
WILLOW
The universe had a sick sense of humor.
