"You say you're a lot of work?" He shook his headslightly, a soft smile touching his lips. "Fine. I like a complex project. I'm not looking for easy, Sarah. I'm looking for real."
Sarah stared at him. A single tear escaped, tracking down her cheek. She let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for a year.
"You're not running?"
"I'm planted," Julian said. "I'm right here. And I'm not going anywhere until you tell me to."
Sarah looked at their joined hands. She squeezed back.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."
"Okay," Julian echoed. He picked up the grocery bag with one hand, keeping hold of hers with the other. "Now. Walk me to your door. I want to make sure this cheese gets into a refrigerator before we debate the structural integrity of your pie crust."
Sarah laughed—a wet, shaky sound, but it was real.
As they walked toward her house, Julian felt a fierce protectiveness settle over him. He knew the road wouldn't be smooth. He knew there were ghosts in her house and mines in her memory.
But looking at the way she held her head high despite it all, he knew one thing for certain: She was worth the build.
Chapter Sixteen
Harrison
The heater in Harrison’s 2014 Civic—a downgrade from his company lease—was broken. It rattled and wheezed, blowing lukewarm dust into his face as he idled in the "15 Minute Parking" zone outside Le Jardin.
He wasn't eating there. He was working.
The gig economy was the only thing that didn't ask for references from his previous employer. So, Harrison Miller, former Senior Project Manager, was now a "Delivery Partner." The back seat smelled of Thai food and soggy cardboard.
He checked his phone. Order #492: Pickup.
He was tired. His back ached from the cheap mattress in the apartment. His ears rang from Emily’s complaints about her swollen ankles and the lack of money for a "proper" baby shower.
He pulled his collar up against the biting November wind and stepped out of the car.
He walked toward the restaurant entrance, keeping his head down. He lived in constant terror of running into a former colleague, a client, or anyone who knew who he used to be.
He grabbed the handle of the heavy oak door.
Then, he froze.
Through the large, floor-to-ceiling glass window of the restaurant, he saw her.
Sarah.
She was sitting at a corner booth, bathed in the warm, golden light of the dining room. She wasn't wearing the graysweatpants she used to wear when she was stressed. She was wearing a sleek black dress that exposed her shoulders. Her hair was loose, shiny, and full.
She looked... renovated.
Harrison felt a physical blow to his solar plexus. He forgot how to breathe. He forgot the delivery order. He stepped back into the shadows of the awning, pressing himself against the brick, unable to tear his eyes away.
She wasn't alone.
Sitting across from her was a man.
He wasn't a kid. He wasn't some rebound fling. He was a fortress of a man. Broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a suit that cost more than Harrison’s current car. He sat with a stillness that Harrison envied—a calm, anchored presence.
Harrison watched, paralyzed, as the waiter placed a dessert between them.
