Scott wasn’t in the suite when I awoke. The couch hadn’t been slept on; only the faint cedar scent lingered on the pillows. The hollow that carved open in my chest the second I realized he was gone scared me more than his presence ever had. Why does his absence still feel like a missing limb when my head knows better?
“Earth to Lyla.” Renee appears with her own mug. “Emily asked you a question.”
“Sorry. What?”
Valerie slides in across from me, brow arched. “Let me guess—the date was perfect, Damon was a gentleman, and now you’re spiraling.”
Is it that obvious?
“So let’s be real,” Valerie says gently. “How was it?”
“Great.” The word slips out too easily. “We had easy conversation. He asked about my business, actually listened. He’s steady—the kind of man who keeps promises.”
Emily tilts her head, skeptical. “Sounds like the jackpot. So why do you look like someone just canceled Christmas?”
Because safe and easy are what I need. What I should need. A life without that terrifying, all-consuming burn might actually be the smart choice.
I exhale. “Damon gave me a lot to think about last night.”
“Oh?” Emily leans in. “What kind of thinking? Dirty? Filthy?”
I lower my voice. “He makes sense. He’s warm and kind. Interested in building something real and steady. I don’t think he’s the type to disappear when things get hard.”
Valerie’s eyes narrow. “That’s great, but…does he light you up? Do you feel anything when he’s close?”
That’s the best part. I don’t have to.
Before I can answer, Damon’s voice slides in, warm and unruffled. “What are we talking about today, ladies?” His hand rests lightly on the back of my chair—casual, grounding.
It should feel comforting. Instead, it feels…neutral.
Exactly as it should. Practical. Safe.
Hearing rippling from the pool, I turn. Scott rises from the pool in one fluid motion, water streaming down every carved line of muscle. Dark hair slicked back, towel slung low around his neck, board shorts clinging in ways that make my mouth go dry and a traitorous ache bloom low in my belly.
He looks like he’s been at war with himself all morning, coiled tension rolling off him in waves.
His gaze locks on mine. Blue. Burning. The hollow in my chest rips wider.
My pulse stutters. My skin feels hot. My carefully constructed logic wavers slightly.
And for one stupid, traitorous second, a thought pops into my mind. A thought I’ve denied for ten years. What if he’s not bullshitting like I’ve been thinking he has? What if he’s actually telling the truth that there’s more to the story? The thought feels like betrayal—of the girl who cried alone in a hospital bed, of the woman who built an entire life so no man could ever do that again.
I shove it down hard. I’m not ready to hear whatever story he’s carrying. Not yet. For all I know, I could be imagining things.
But the hollow in my chest refuses to quit.
Damon excuses himself to grab a plate. Emily leans close, whispering. “How do you feel about Scott?”
Everything.
Too much.
Not enough.
All at once.
Because no matter how much I justify, no matter how hard I try to choose the safe path, my body still screams for his fire.
