She squints at the screen. “It looks like a box.”
“That’s because it’s a loft,” he says patiently.
“It still looks like a box.”
Phil snorts. Lindy shakes her head. “She’s not wrong.”
Ollie scrolls to the newer photos—the ones taken a few weeks ago apparently. Walls framed. Light pouring in through floor-to-ceiling windows.
Amelia’s verdict changes immediately. “Oh. That one’s better.”
Ollie beams like he’s just been knighted.
I watch him, something in my gut shifting again. When he told me he chose San Francisco partly because of me, it had sent a ripple of unease through me—too close, too fast, too much weight placed on my life without my consent.
But this? This is different. This is him being excited, and yeah, nervous and proud too.
Human.
Lindy’s phone rings halfway through the flight. She glances at the screen and winces before answering. “Hey, Mom,” she says, voice instantly guarded.
I look away, giving her privacy, but it’s impossible not to feel the shift in Ollie beside me. His shoulders tense. His gaze flicks to her, then away, mouth set in a firm line.
I lean in just enough that only he can hear me. “Have you talked to them at all?”
He exhales slowly. “Not really.”
“When was the last time you saw them?”
“Lindy’s wedding,” he says. “They were… civil.”
That tells me everything.
Lindy lowers her voice, murmuring something about travel plans and schedules, deflecting questions with the practiced ease of someone used to managing other people’s expectations. When she hangs up, she exhales and rubs her forehead.
Ollie doesn’t say anything. Instead, he nudges my knee lightly. “Tell me about your place.”
It’s an intentional pivot. I recognize it for what it is—a lifeline, thrown outward instead of inward. “My place?”
“In San Francisco,” he says. “The place you call home.”
I hesitate, then pull my phone out and open the gallery. Before photos first. Clean lines. White walls. Big windows. Stark in a way that made sense when I bought it—something neutral, something that wouldn’t demand feeling.
Then the recent ones. Warm wood and textured stone. A kitchen that looks like someone cooks in it. A living space that feels less like a retreat and more like a home.
Ollie’s eyes light up. “You kept the windows.”
“Nonnegotiable,” I say.
“And the view?”
“Also nonnegotiable.”
He grins, that wide, unguarded grin I remember too well. “It’s beautiful. Marco’s wife’s handling the interior of my new place,” he adds quickly, like he can’t help himself. “Today’s supposed to be the last walkthrough before she really gets into it.”
The excitement in his voice is genuine and infectious. Something in my chest settles.
Vinny leans in from the seat behind us. “Just got word from Seth.”
