Every whispered plea pushes me closer to the edge until she clenches around me, legs shaking, her release crashing through her in waves.
I follow with a low growl, pressing her flush against me as we ride it out together, hearts thudding, water streaming over us like summer rain.
Chest rising and falling, she pivots in my arms, and our mouths find each other, torrid and tender, like all the words we probably want to but can’t quite say.
God, this woman.
She,this fling, was meant to be part of my healing. Not getting wrecked all over again.
But maybe I’ve already passed the point of no return.
Maybe I’m halfway in lo?—
Nope. Not going to admit that. Not even to myself. Not when saying it out loud or in my head might make thisreal.
So, I chase that thought away and rest my forehead against hers, breaths still uneven. “How about that pie?”
Morning sunlight spills through the bay window, painting her skin gold.
Cami’s still asleep, curled against my chest, one leg slung over mine like it’s second nature.
She stirs as I ease out of bed but doesn’t open her eyes, just burrows deeper into the sheets and mumbles, “You better come back.”
I lean down and press a kiss to the top of her head. “Always.”
The floor is cool underfoot as I pad downstairs for coffee. It’s just past six. The house is still. No kittens yet. No sound but the hum of the fridge and the ocean doing its thing outside.
This is the rhythm now.
Wake up early.
Review acquisition targets.
Skim financials.
Clear a few emails before Cami wakes.
Pretend my chest doesn’t feel heavier every time I leave her in my bed.
By the time I climb to the attic, coffee mug in hand, the horizon’s tinged with pink. I settle into Grandpa’s old woodenchair, my back to the window, legs stretched out, laptop open but mostly ignored.
The space still hums with echoes of my teenage summers, but now it pulls double duty as a makeshift office. Fewer Marvel comics, more merger reports.
And lately, those reports have started to feel more like clutter—drowned out by what this summer has stirred in me.
I used to think growing the bottom line was what mattered most: build the portfolio, scale the rentals, close the next deal. But lately, I’m not so sure. Something about this place, about waking up next to Cami, watching the tide shift with the sunrise, makes the clutter easier to ignore.
My phone buzzes.
Mont. Of course.
The man treats Sundays like Tuesdays and holidays like myths.
I answer with a groan. “Still the holiday weekend.”
“So I’ve heard. You sound like you need a transfusion. Don’t tell me you’re still pretending you’re on vacation.”
I smirk. “Depends on how you define rest and relaxation.”
