Chapter 11 It’s Not Over
IT’S NOT OVER
HENSON
Ican still feel Amira’s hand on my thigh like it’s seared into my skin, and it’s driving me insane.
I reach for the glass of red wine in front of me.
It’s almost warm now, untouched since before the mashed potatoes made it around the table.
“You’re seriously fucked,” I mumble under my breath and take a long sip. One of my cousins glances at me, their brows furrowed.
I need space.
The second the dinner plates are cleared and someone suggests dessert, I rise from my chair and mutter something about needing to make a work call. No one questions it. My family practically expects me to disappear at least once during any major event or social gathering.
I slip down the hallway to the office on the main floor. It’s quiet inside and smells like old books and cedar polish. As soon as the door clicks shut behind me, I exhale, sinking into the leather armchair behind the desk and pulling out my phone. The screen lights up with unread notifications.
A long string of texts from Gen sits at the top.
Gen: You left me on a cliffhanger, you jerk.
Gen: Did you get out of Seattle?
Gen: Or did the snow finally claim you???
Gen: HENSON.
Gen: Did you DIE?
Gen: Okay, now I’m worried.
Gen: Did you make it to Nantucket?
I slap my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Shit.”
I totally forgot I hung up on her yesterday mid-chaos at the airport trying to reroute myself.
Me: Made it to Nantucket. Sorry for ghosting, I got… sidetracked. Merry Christmas, Gen. Bonus coming soon, I promise.
I scroll through generic holiday texts from business partners, investors, and vague acquaintances and am about to toss the phone on the desk when one message from a number with no name attached catches my eye.
Merry Christmas, Henny. I miss you…
My stomach knots.
I don’t need a name to know who it is. Celia.
Of course she’d reach out today. Holidays were always her soft spot. She used to get annoyingly sentimental around Christmas, claiming it was the only time she ever believed in second chances.
And maybe there was a version of me that once did, too.
I stare at the screen a second longer, thumb hovering above the keyboard. But before I start to spiral and my past can sink its claws back into my ribs, the office door swings open. Amira steps in.
She stops short when she sees me, one hand still on the doorknob, eyes wide.
“Oh! I’m so sorry. I’m looking for the bathroom.”
I don’t move, just crook a smile. “Next door to your right.”
Amira gives a quick nod, already halfway out when I say, “Wait. Come in.”
Her steps pause.
It’s quiet for a beat. I can practically hear her hesitation through the open door.
Then she steps back in, slowly, shoulders drawn, hands clasped in front of her.
I take her in without even meaning to. She changed out of the clothes she had on the plane and is now in a deep green sweater that falls just off one shoulder, paired with light jeans and running shoes.
She’s beautiful. Maybe even more beautiful than yesterday, and I didn’t think that was possible.
The light from the hallway catches in the waves of her hair, and for a second, I forget what I was going to say.
Amira shifts on her feet, breaking the spell.
“I didn’t know you were working for my mom.”
Her brows lift. “I didn’t even know she was your mom.”
I huff a quiet laugh and lean back in the chair, resting my forearm on the desk. “Fair.”
Amira still hasn’t moved from the doorway.
I should let her go find the damn bathroom and get back to pretending we don’t know each other over sugar cookies and Christmas carols. But instead, I say, “Maybe we should talk about last night.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Amira replies evenly, looking away. “It was a lapse in judgment. A one-time thing.”
My mouth goes dry. The words land harder than they should. Not because I didn’t know that already, but because hearing it out loud makes it cold, final.
I push up from the chair, jaw tight. “Right. A lapse in judgment.”
She flinches, hearing the edge in my voice, even though I tried to keep it buried.
“Henson,” she adds, softer now. “Even more so now that I work for your family. It’s a conflict. It’s messy.”
“You don’t work for me, though,” I counter.
Amira crosses her arms. “I’m here to do a job, Henson. One I take seriously. I don’t mix business with—” she pauses, visibly swallowing.
“Pleasure,” I finish for her.
I take slow steps toward her. Amira doesn’t move at first but, as I close the distance, she instinctively backs up until her shoulders brush the door and it clicks closed.
Her chin lifts, but her breathing shifts.
“See,” I murmur, placing one hand on the door beside her head, then the other, caging her in. “I think you’ve got it backward.”
She swallows hard though still holds my gaze.
“This isn’t a problem.” I drop my voice to a low drawl. “It’s an opportunity.”
Her lips part, like she’s about to argue, but I lean in, her breath catching as mine brushes against her cheek.
I bring my mouth to her ear. “I want to taste you again, Mira.”
Even though she hasn’t said a word, I can see the way she’s unraveling.
Amira’s trying so damn hard to hold herself together, and it only makes me want to pull her closer.
I lean in again. “You remember how you sounded last night? The way you whispered my name as if you craved it more than air?”
Her hands tighten at her sides, and I know she feels every word.
“You clung to me like you couldn’t get close enough,” I whisper, letting the words drip.
Amira exhales shakily, her lashes fluttering as she turns her face slightly away.
I press closer. “The way you begged for more?” My lips graze the shell of her ear.
“Do you remember? Because I do, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it. ”
Goosebumps spread down her neck.
She’s in shambles, and still trying to pretend she’s not.
I lower my voice even more, just a breath now. “You want it again. You want me again. And that scares the hell out of you.”
My hand slides from the door to her jaw, tilting her face toward mine, and I kiss her deeply and hard, with all the frustration and hunger I’ve been trying to bite back since the moment she walked into this house.
Amira gasps against my mouth, but instead of pulling away, she grabs fistfuls of my shirt and tugs me closer. I press her into the door, our bodies flush against each other, and her lips open under mine like she’s just as desperate as I am.
I groan into her mouth, my hand sliding into her hair as we kiss harder.
Whatever this is between us… it’s not over.