Chapter 16
WE’RE SCRAPPING THE OYSTERS
AMIRA
It’s been three days since Henson gave me some of the best orgasms of my life in his parents’ home. Since we sat together in front of the fire in the cottage, trading smiles and tea and carefully avoiding the weight of what is building between us.
When I woke up the following morning, I was alone. I didn’t even remember falling asleep. The last thing I recalled was sitting in the living room, warm and relaxed, the fire burning low.
Henson must’ve carried me to bed.
The thought makes my chest ache again. The good kind. The kind that makes it swell a little too much for comfort. I should’ve been grateful for the distance, for the way he didn’t press to stay. But as I stared at the empty space beside me, I felt… disappointed.
I reminded myself of what this is. What it isn’t.
And I’ve been trying to snuff out the feeling ever since.
It doesn’t mean anything.
Christmas Day came and went. I spent it alone in the cottage, on a video call with my family.
My mom and I cooked together—phone propped up beside the cutting board while she guided me through our usual recipes and asked a hundred questions about the New Year’s Eve event.
It wasn’t the same, but it helped. Still, there was a quiet ache I couldn’t shake.
Not just from missing my family, but from how often my thoughts wandered back to Henson.
He’d invited me to Christmas dinner with his family, saying it would be casual and no pressure, though I couldn’t bring myself to go. I’d already spent Christmas Eve with them. Showing up again the next day felt too intimate. Too coupley. And we’re not a couple… right?
That’s the mantra I repeat as I push open the door to The Driftwood Grind, a small coffee shop tucked between a bookstore and a beachwear boutique, the kind of place that smells like nutmeg and sea salt and freshly ground espresso.
I shake the cold from my scarf and slide into a booth near the back, grateful for the heater near my feet. I’m early, but the caterer arrives just minutes after I sit down, bundled in a black coat, cheeks pink from the wind.
“Let’s talk food,” Jules says, plopping the binder on the table and flipping it open.
“We’ve got about a hundred confirmed guests,” I say. “I want to keep it elegant, festive, but nothing that feels stuffy.”
“So we’re scrapping the oysters?” he teases.
“Definitely scrapping the oysters.”
The party is in four days, and everything is on schedule. We’re halfway through going over the menu, final head count, adjusted appetizers, and the revised dessert bar setup since the custom cake has changed, when the bell above the door jingles again. I glance up and pause.
A woman walks in.
She’s tall, poised, the kind of put-together that screams old money and a team of stylists. Her coat is designer, her blowout flawless. Burgundy lipstick. Oversized sunglasses—even though we’re inside. She looks like she stepped off the pages of a fashion spread and into the wrong town by accident.
Definitely not local.
As soon as she reaches the counter, chin held high, I catch her ordering something I’ve never even heard of. A Golden Velvet Cloud? What the hell is that?
The barista gives her a confused look. “I’m sorry, we don’t have that.”
“Of course, you don’t. Small towns.” The woman waves it off with an eye roll before settling with a grimace on a regular drink instead.
I pull my eyes away before she can notice me staring and Jules and I exchange a small grin. We wrap up ten minutes later with everything locked in.
As he zips up his coat, he pauses. “This is going to be one hell of a party.”
I nod, grabbing my tote bag. “Let’s hope so.”
We part ways, and I head down the street to Sea Glass Florals, a shop that looks as if it was plucked from a fairytale, with pale blue doors, twinkle lights in the windows, and the scent of eucalyptus that greets you like a hug the second you step inside.
“Amira!” The florist, Kennedy, beams at me. “You’re early.”
“Holiday miracle,” I joke. “Just wanted to double-check the New Year’s install.”
We walk through the mock setup, and it’s exactly what Nadine wanted: a clean and sophisticated winter wonderland without looking like a mall Santa threw up in it.
“I think she’s going to love it,” I tell her honestly.
“She’d better,” Kennedy teases. “This is my favorite setup I’ve done all season.”
After confirming the delivery schedule and saying goodbye, I make my way to Salt )
I bite my bottom lip, trying not to smile like an idiot.
Me: Let me guess. You can open a bottle of wine without breaking a sweat?
Mr. Billionaire: That. And I give incredible restaurant recommendations.
Me: Is this your way of saying we’re not just grabbing burgers?
Mr. Billionaire: We’re getting burgers. But it’ll be the best damn burger you’ve ever had.
Me: So confident. Sounds like someone needs to be humbled.
Mr. Billionaire: You can try. Fair warning, though, Temptress… I tend to leave people speechless.
My cheeks flush, and I toss the phone onto the bed before I can embarrass myself.
I glance at the clock: 6:23.
I have less than forty minutes to stop being a disaster and figure out how to look like the kind of woman who doesn’t get all twisted up over a man who has saved “Mr. Billionaire” under his name in her phone.