Page 143 of The Broken Keys

Business. That’s the last thing on my mind.

She’s placing her boundaries without saying the words, and I recognize that. She doesn’t want me putting innuendos out there for her to pick up on. I’m obviously making her uncomfortable.

“Please call me Jaxon.” I slip my hands into my pants pockets. “You never call me Mr. Crowne.”

“Okay, Jaxon it is.” She turns toward the door. “Are you sure you don’t mind getting me through the first part of my day?”

“Positive. Lead the way.”

She guides us across the hallway to her office suite. Wemake polite hellos with her office manager, then go back to her personal space.

The moment she steps through the door, something shifts in her posture. Her shoulders relax as she takes in the space—the design boards covering one wall, fabric swatches organized by color and texture, her drafting table positioned near the windows.

“This feels right.” She moseys toward the boards, her fingers hovering over sketches pinned in messy rows. “I hope I can remember how to do this.”

“Muscle memory. Your hands will remember even when your mind doesn’t.”

She faces me with the first genuine smile I’ve seen today. “That’s actually comforting.”

The smile guts me more than her questions about Cash. This is the Livianna I fell in love with—the one who lights up when talking about her work, who finds beauty in fabric and form.

“Show me what you’re working on for Marcus Chen.” I settle into the chair across from her drafting table, maintaining professional distance even though every cell in my body wants to close the gap between us.

She riffles through a portfolio on her desk and pulls out design sketches. “Ella mentioned this is the adaptive fashion line. Clothing for people with disabilities.”

“That’s right.” I lean forward to examine the drawings. “You were particularly excited about the magnetic closures and the sensory-friendly fabrics.”

Her eyes widen. “I chose fabrics based on sensory needs?”

“You researched for months.” Pride swells in my heart despite the ache. “You interviewed occupational therapists, consulted with disability advocates, and tested every material yourself.”

She stares at the sketches with something close to wonder. “I did all that?”

“You did.” I take in all her beauty as she processes this. The way her brows furrow in concentration and the slight parting of her lips when she’s thinking.

I need her to remember. “You wanted the line to be beautiful and functional. You said fashion shouldn’t require people to choose between style and accessibility.”

“That sounds like something I’d say.” She traces the edge of one design with her fingertip. “I’ve always wanted to create something like this.”

The casual reference to her wanting to create this is a reminder of how fractured her timeline is. She has no idea she said those exact words to me two years ago over dinner in Paris.

“The Marcus Chen partnership will take your brand global.” I force myself to focus on business, not on memories. “Manufacturing in multiple countries, distribution networks across Asia and Europe.”

Her excitement dims. “That’s a lot of responsibility for someone who can’t remember shit.”

“Don’t worry about any of that, Livianna. Anything you need, I can help.”

“Thank you.” She motions to a round table in the room. “Will you sit with me over there and fill me in on what I’m missing?”

“I want nothing more.”

We settle in to review marketing plans, the Marcus Chen details, and anything else that comes up. All the while, I can’t take my eyes off her. I know I can’t push, but being near her is like being home.

As she flips through sketches and organizes them, my mind wanders back to the day I told her I was going to move into the Malibu home with her.

Then

We’re in bed, wrapped around each other. The past few days, while she’s been avoiding me, have been enough for me to realize I don’t want to be apart anymore than we have to be.