thirty-three
The blouse I'd picked out—cream silk, with sleeves that gathered at the wrists—was still hanging from the closet door.
I'd debated between that and a black turtleneck for nearly ten minutes before finally deciding the cream felt more "future business owner".
The matching trousers were laid out on the bed, along with my heels.
My laptop sat open on the nightstand, the tab with Evelyn's email blinking in the corner. Eleven o'clock, sharp. If all went well, this could be the day I stopped calling it a dream and started calling it my business.
I was halfway through curling the last section of my hair when my phone lit up across the vanity—Brooks's name filling the screen. I picked it up, tucking it between my ear and shoulder while guiding the curling iron down the strand.
"Morning," I said.
"Morning, beautiful," he answered, his voice warm and still carrying that half-awake rasp I secretly loved. "What are you up to?"
"Getting ready for my meeting with Evelyn," I said, setting the curl gently against my shoulder. "She's going to show me the full breakdown of costs and financing options. If the numbers make sense, I could be signing papers within the month."
"That's exciting," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
There was a pause. Just long enough for me to know he had something else on his mind.
"What's up?" I asked, reaching for my perfume.
"My mom's in Philly," he said finally.
I froze mid-spray. "Right now?"
"Yeah. Flew in last night. I wasn't expecting it, but... she's having dinner later, and I was thinking it might be a good time for us to—"
"Brooks," I interrupted gently, "we've talked about this. I thought you said you didn't care how your parents felt about us."
"I don't," he said quickly. "Not in the sense that I need their approval to be with you. But I also don't want to spend the rest of my life dodging conversations that could make things easier. You mean a lot to me. I think if she saw us together—really saw us—it might change something."
I set the perfume down, turning in my chair to face the bed. My blouse and trousers looked suddenly more like armor than clothing. "My meeting's at eleven," I reminded him.
"I know. And I don't want to get in the way of that. But she's free for most of the afternoon. I could come get you in an hour, we could head to Philly, maybe grab lunch before. Dinner's at six." His voice softened, coaxing. "It would mean a lot to me if you were there."
I glanced at my laptop. The folder with Evelyn's name was still open—photos of the building, the tentative floor plans I'd been sketching in stolen moments. "Could we... maybe do both?" I asked.
His low chuckle came through the speaker. "You really want to walk into dinner with my mom straight from a meeting with a real estate broker?"
"It's not a bad look," I teased, though my chest felt tight.
"I think this is a moment we shouldn't miss," he said. "I'll make it worth your while."
I laughed despite myself, leaning back in my chair. "That's not fair."
"Not playing fair," he replied smoothly. "I just... I want her to see what I see."
The words lingered, warm and dangerous in my chest. I let out a long breath, my reflection in the mirror looking like a woman trying to decide which part of her life to choose.
I reached for my phone and typed before I could overthink it: Something came up—can we reschedule?
Brooks must've sensed my hesitation because his voice softened even more. "Thank you, baby. I mean it."
"Yeah, yeah," I said, pretending to sound annoyed but feeling that small, reluctant smile form anyway. "Give me an hour to finish getting ready"
I stood in front of my closet for too long, until my eyes landed on the white strapless jumpsuit I slipped it on, smoothing the fabric over my hips, the structured bodice holding everything in place.
I wasn't even sure if having my shoulders exposed was the right call with his mom.
My hair was curled in soft waves, falling down my back, and I added a gold bracelet, just enough to catch the light.
Brooks's car was idling out front when I stepped outside, the late afternoon light catching on the sleek black paint. Monte sat behind the wheel, and in the backseat, Brooks was already leaned over with the door open like he'd been waiting to catch the first glimpse of me.
His eyes swept over me—slow, deliberate—lingering in a way that sent a ripple down my spine. "Well," he murmured as I slid in beside him, "if I didn't already have plans with you, I'd be pulling this car over somewhere quiet."
I smoothed my pants, a small smile tugging at my mouth. "Funny."
He leaned in to brush a kiss against my cheek, then my mouth—just enough to steal my gloss. He smelled like his cologne and a trace of something clean from his shower. His palm found my thigh, warm and steady. "You're perfect. Thank you for coming."
I shifted slightly to face him. "I canceled a meeting I've been waiting weeks for."
"I know," he said easily, his thumb drawing idle circles against my leg. "Evelyn will understand. She likes you."
"She barely knows me," I reminded him.
"Then she'll like you when she does," he replied, voice low, almost reassuring but too confident for me to argue with.
He leaned in again, catching my jaw with his hand as he kissed me slower this time, like he wasn't in any rush to get wherever we were going.
"Besides," he added against my lips, "tonight's a big deal for us."
I sat back, still feeling the heat from his touch, but part of me was restless. "This meeting was important to me, Brooks."
"I know," he said again, softer now, like he thought saying it gently would make it better. "So are you to me. Let me take care of tonight, and I'm sure Evelyn will meet with you another time. I'll name drop if I have to."
It was sweet—frustratingly sweet, the kind that made it hard to stay annoyed. His hand stayed on my thigh, thumb still stroking in lazy patterns, as the car pulled away from the curb.
A few minutes into the drive, I glanced down at my phone. The message to Evelyn sat there with the little "Read" beneath it, untouched. No reply.
I tucked the phone face down in my lap and turned my gaze to the window, watching the city blur past while Brooks's fingers played absentmindedly with the edge of my bracelet.
The ride into the city felt suspended in its own little bubble.
Brooks's hand stayed on my thigh, his thumb brushing slow, easy circles against the fabric of my pants.
Every red light was another chance for him to lean in and kiss me—soft, unhurried, like he was trying to ease me into whatever the night would bring.
When the car finally slowed in front of the restaurant, I glanced down at my phone. Evelyn's message was still marked "read." No reply. It sat heavy in my chest, the kind of weight I didn't want him to see, so I locked the screen and tucked the phone into my bag.
The hostess led us through the low-lit dining room—jazz humming softly overhead, conversations murmuring in warm pockets of privacy. It was the kind of place where everyone seemed to be talking in secrets.
She was already at the table when we arrived. Brooks's mother rose gracefully, a silk blouse falling just right, her glass of white wine already halfway gone. The way her eyes lit at the sight of him was instant, unfiltered—like he'd just walked in from a year abroad.
"Darling," she said, stepping in to hug him and press a kiss to his cheek. She lingered there, hands on his arms, soaking him in.
When she finally looked past him, her gaze skimmed over me, cool and fleeting. Then she simply turned back toward her seat without a word.
Brooks's hand found the small of my back, firm, like he'd felt the temperature drop. Brooks didn't miss it. "Mom," he said lightly, though there was an edge under the warmth. "Amira is here with me. I expect you to show her the same respect you'd want me to give your guests."
That earned me a more direct look—still measured, still guarded—but she managed a polite, "Hello, Amira."
"Mrs. Whitmore," I said evenly, keeping my expression calm. "Nice to see you again."
She lifted her wine glass, taking her time with a sip. "When you said you were bringing a guest, I thought it was only fair I invite one of my own." She smiled, small and deliberate. "She's running late, but she'll be joining us shortly."
The words sat between us like they'd been placed there on purpose. Brooks didn't react, at least not where she could see, but his thumb brushed over the back of my hand under the table—so light it almost felt like he was telling me to hold steady.
The server came by, all smiles and menus, but I barely glanced at mine. The edge in his mother's voice clung to me, the way perfume lingers in the air long after someone's left a room.
Brooks ordered wine for the table, his tone easy, practiced. His mother kept the conversation surface-level—travel plans, a charity gala she'd attended last week, the weather in D.C. this time of year. If she asked me anything, it was a question so small it barely left room for an answer.
"What have you been up to lately, Amira?" she asked finally, eyes flicking toward me, then away just as quick.
"Working," I said. "Settling into the new place."
"Mhm," she murmured, already folding her napkin into her lap. "And how's... that?"
"It's good," I replied. My voice stayed polite, but I could feel my pulse in my fingertips.
Brooks reached for my hand under the table, lacing his fingers through mine. The gesture was casual enough for the room but meant for me alone—something steady in the middle of the drift.
His mother smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Margot will be here soon," she said suddenly, as if announcing the next course. "She's just coming from another event."
I kept my face neutral, though the name hit sharper than I wanted it to. Brooks didn't let go of my hand.
"That's nice," he said, his tone unreadable.