Chapter 22
HOLLY
Iwatch Dexter leave, and for a second, something tugs at me. Something was... off. An edge in his voice I wouldn’t have noticed in anyone else. With him, I catch it instantly.
Maybe I’m imagining it. He’s probably just distracted by work.
Still, part of me was hoping he’d stay.
Last time, waking up beside him had felt... nice.
But honestly, him leaving keeps things simple. Clean. Or at least, as clean as it can get when you’re sleeping with your best friend.
The next morning, I throw myself into work.
First order of business: get organized. If I’m going to move, I need an efficient plan, and I won’t be able to focus until things are in place.
Organization isn’t exactly my thing, but I channel Dexter and start to bring some order to the chaos.
One spreadsheet later I feel I’m organized, but still human.
Then I spend the rest of the morning doing the admin chores I’ve been putting off: client folders, project specs, supplier contacts, and sorting through way too many mislabeled PDFs.
I’m making sure everything’s filed and idiot-proof before I leave (not because I doubt Kenzie, but because I don’t trust myself to remember everything if she circles back).
It’s tedious, but necessary. And frankly, it does the job: It gives my brain something to chew on that isn’t him.
But even while I’m sorting CAD files and answering emails, I can’t shake it.
I think about texting him.
Part of me wants to ask him what’s going on.
But a louder part says to leave it alone.
If there’s something I need to know, he’ll tell me. He always does.
Around eleven, I swing by my favorite coffee shop to grab one for each of us. Dexter is probably buried in meetings, and I need a caffeine excuse to see him. Mostly, I just want things between us to stay normal. I’m determined not to put distance between us like before.
I flop down on the Italian leather couch, waiting for his assistant, Hermine, to finish the call, and give her a small wave. She greets me with a wide smile. “He has ten minutes, just finished a phone conference.”
Perfect.
Dexter’s office is exactly what you’d expect, if you know him well enough: calm.
That’s the word. Dark walls (a shade too dark for corporate taste), warm lighting, and a solid oak desk that looks so spotless it’s practically asking for a fingerprint (I volunteer).
Not a single paper is out of place, of course, except maybe that ceramic tray he claims isn’t for mints, even though it always holds mints.
I didn’t officially design it, but he sent me seventeen texts asking which furniture didn’t scream “I read one interior design magazine and lost control.” I knew exactly what he meant and steered him away from anything that gave off “architect trying too hard” energy.
Final call was his, even if he picked a graphite gray one I wasn’t entirely sold on.
My own style, both at home and at the office, leans vintage eclectic: layered, warm, a little chaotic (if you look too closely), which is about as far from Dexter’s taste as it gets.
His space is the opposite. Purpose-built. Nothing unnecessary.
Well. Credit where it’s due: Those leather armchairs make sense for him.
You sit, sink in, and suddenly he doesn’t seem half as irritating.
No doubt that’s when everyone signs on the dotted line.
It feels like, fine, he’s intimidating, dangerous, and never smiles (at least that’s what Keith swears he’s like in the office)…
but then he gets to work and you realize you didn’t just hire an architect, you hired a beast who takes your little rough sketch and builds something so exceedingly impressive you didn’t know it was possible, even in your wildest dreams.
On the shelf behind him, framed by shiny AIA architecture awards and thick architecture books, sits the Titanic paperweight I gave him six Christmases ago that he still pretends he doesn’t like.
“It’s gaudy,” he said (he’s wrong). And right beside that there’s the only personal photo he ever put on display: him and his dad in front of a deep, glossy red Honda Gold Wing.
It looks like it’s built for long rides, and perfect for carrying a kid on the back.
I remember when he finally put that photo up.
He didn’t say anything about it, just placed it there one day.
Dexter is at his desk, keys clicking fast under his hands, focused, and as always, jaw locked tight.
A few strands of his slicked-back hair have fallen into his stormy eyes, and the sleeves of his white button-up are rolled up past his elbows, like a Wall Street villain. Honestly, there should be a law.
“Brought caffeine,” I say, setting it down.
He doesn’t look up. “Thanks, Holly. Not sure I’ll get to it.”
That edge in his voice? It’s still there.
“You good?”
“Just work,” he mutters. “You know I’ve got that big presentation coming up, and a hundred other things in the way.”
“Want me to go?”
Eventually he glances at me. “No. Stay.”
He picks up his double espresso, takes a sip and meets my eyes again. “How’s your prep?”
I know he’s stretched thin, so I keep it brief.
“I’ve got a workable plan now. A loose timeline, movers, packing, what I can manage from here.
Shelby’s handling the London side, kindergarten research, her network, all that.
We’re splitting it cleanly. At least we’re not stepping on each other’s toes.
And if anything work-related pops up while I’m overseas, Kenzie can cover it. ”
He huffs. “Good plan.”
“I spent the morning writing it all out. Yes, in a spreadsheet. And yes, it’s as painful as it sounds.”
“I’m proud of you.”
I pause and smile, a little caught off guard by his words. “Thanks, Dexter.”
“Shelby’s got you from across the ocean. Kenzie won’t let anything fall apart here. Smart.”
That’s his thing. He says something with that unshakable certainty, and suddenly I forget I ever doubted myself.
“Still on for tonight?” he asks.
“Definitely.”
I lean in to hug him. He stands and wraps those manly arms around me, veins popping. Seriously. What is it about a rolled sleeve that screams world domination? Is it a rule that every man looks ten times more powerful like that?
“Good,” he murmurs, tone going rigid for half a second. “We both need it.”
I pull back, study him. “You sure you’re okay?”
Dexter thrives on pressure. He lives for the next big win, and always says there’s no real competition, because no one else plays at his level. This presentation must be bigger than I thought.
“I’m fine,” he says, firm and final.
I leave, taking him at his word.
Fortunately, back at the office, I’m too wrapped up in work to obsess about anything else. It’s getting close to the end of the day when my phone rattles on the desk.
Shelby:
Who’s the best sister in the world?
Me:
Is this a trap?
Shelby:
Absolutely not. Just your dazzlingly resourceful sister who’s only gone and found us the perfect nursery building.
Me:
OMG. Show me!
What follows is a stream of photos showing a bright white stucco townhouse just off Lancaster Gate.
Look at those windows! Tall and arched at the top, with big white frames against the facade—so adorable!
And those cherry trees and silver birches in the garden make it feel safe, almost hidden.
The place is just screaming for kids to run all over it, and climb the trees, which they absolutely shouldn’t (but let’s be real, they will).
Inside, Shelby snapped every room from multiple angles.
Judging by the bigger main space and a few adjacent rooms, it looks like it used to be split into some kind of office, until whoever owned it last tore half the walls down.
I’m already planning sightlines, play zones, and exactly where the shoe cubbies belong.
And, of course, the perfect spot for my newborn’s bed.
Me:
Please tell me the rent is not insane.
Shelby:
Surprisingly sane, actually. Bit of plumbing to sort, but I’ve already had a word. It’s been sitting empty for ages.
Me:
I love it. Shall we make an offer?
Shelby:
Ready when you are, darling. My pen is poised as we speak.
Me:
Shelby, do it. I’m in!
I let out a squeal and spin around my office.
This is it. It’s all happening!
A private kindergarten. In the UK, that’s actually possible, and the great thing is, they run independently over there.
They’re still regulated, of course. Ofsted—Office for Standards in Education, Children’s Services and Skills—oversees everything and sets strict criteria: qualified staff (we’re going to be amazing), proper staff-to-child ratios (we’ve got calculators), and safe, suitable premises (thanks, Shelby).
It’s not hard to imagine the beautiful jumble of tiny humans everywhere: puzzle pieces in every corner, blocks and candy wrappers hiding in shoes, sticky hands on everything, and someone yelling about dinosaurs (me, likely).
I can’t wait to tell Dexter, but I want to show him the pictures in person. He’s probably buried in meetings, and I don’t want to interrupt his day again.
I set aside everything else on my to-do list and start sketching.
I’m still riding that high when I get home. I’ve just stepped through the door, balancing a bag of groceries in my arms when my phone jolts against my hip.
Dexter:
Last meeting is running late. Won’t be out for another hour.
Me:
Perfect. Gives me time to make dinner.
Dexter:
Sorry. What?
Me:
Dinner. You know, the final meal of the day.
Not counting dessert.
Or any poor decisions that follow.
Dexter:
You don’t cook.
Me:
Today I do. Italian.
Dexter:
Brave. What’s it gonna be… frozen pizza or frozen lasagna?
I glance at the frozen lasagna sitting in my grocery bag.
Me:
Wow. The support. Inspiring.
Dexter:
Just don’t burn it.
I roll my eyes, but a smile tugs at my mouth. Classic Dexter. We’re still good.
I twist my hair into a high ponytail, I toss the lasagna in the oven (forty-five minutes, perfect timing) and decide to kill time with a bubble bath. Half a bottle of the cherry-scented stuff later, I’m neck-deep in foam, scrolling Shelby’s photos again like I didn’t already memorize every pixel.
I shoot off a few texts to Shelby about the layout and staffing plans, and she fires back with her usual commentary. We go back and forth until—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Shit! The smoke alarm.
I shoot upright in the tub, water sloshing.
No towel, no time. I grab the first thing within reach and yank my oversized pale peach T-shirt over my head as I bolt down toward the kitchen.
It sticks instantly, clinging to my dripping wet skin.
Smoke is billowing from the oven, and there’s a small flame licking up the side of a dish towel that fell too close.
“Oven mitts! Where the hell are the damn oven mitts?!”
The flame jumps, catching the hem of the Roman shades over the window.
Shit!
In my hurry, my foot slips on the wet tile and I go down hard, the world tilting as I hit the floor, T-shirt riding up my thighs. The smoke builds, and I try to push myself up, but my ankle is throbbing from the fall.
The smoke grows denser and the shades begin to crackle.
The air turns hot and acrid.
I cough. My eyes burn.
Just then, the front door bursts open. Dexter’s eyes go wide as he takes in the scene: smoke, me on the floor, and the flame that’s pressing closer by the second.
His jacket hits the floor. Three strides and he’s there, grabbing the nearest thing—a pan lid, one of the few I actually own—and uses it to smother the fire, before rushing to the screaming smoke alarm. Coughing, he grabs the broom from beside the fridge and uses the handle to jab the reset button.
BEEP. BE—
Silence.
He tosses the broom aside and kneels beside me. His eyes drop to me, my wet skin, my bare legs. My lack of panties. “Holly! Are you hurt?”
I nod, still a bit shaken. “I think so. I mean… I don’t think so. Just banged up a little.”
“Where? Show me right now.”
I point to my ankle.
“You fucking scared the hell out of me.” His hands are shaking as he lifts me. Yeah, he’s pissed, no doubt about it. “What were you thinking?”
I wince, feeling both grateful and guilty. “I wasn’t thinking, I guess. I’m sorry.”
He sets me onto the kitchen counter and examines my ankle. Big hands close carefully around my foot, as though I might break. His thumb skims the bone, testing the area. “Here?”
I swallow. “Yeah. Just sore, though.”
He yanks open the freezer, grabs a bag of peas, and wraps it in a dish towel before pressing it against my ankle. It’s tender, but I’ll live.
“Sooo... we order pizza?” I say with a weak grin.
I expect a laugh. An “I told you so.” Maybe one of those slow head shakes, like the ones he does when I’ve done something ridiculous. Instead, he looks angrier than I’ve seen in years.
“No. We’re not.” He makes his way to the big double windows and throws them open. Fresh air rushes in, clearing the smoke almost immediately. “First explain what happened.”
“I… followed the instructions,” I say. “The box said forty-five minutes.”
“At four-twenty-five?” he asks, turning the oven off.
“Yes!”
He grabs the box off the counter and flips it over. “Three-twenty-five. Stupid.”
My heart sinks. “Oh… well… whoops.”
“Whoops? Where were you?”
“In the bath,” I admit. “Texting Shelby. I lost track of time.”
He presses his fingers into his temples like he’s trying not to explode.
“For fuck’s sake. You’re moving to another country.
You’ve got a thousand things going on. And instead of slowing down, you add more.
You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating right.
And now you’re one distraction away from ending up in the fucking ER. ”
“Oh, come on, it was a mistake! You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”
“Nothing?” he snaps. “How is this nothing?”
“I accidentally burned some food, Dexter. Why are you so mad? It’s not a crime.” Sliding off the marble counter, I blink at him, the stupid bag of peas still strapped to my ankle.
“I’m mad because you don’t take things seriously.”
“Oh, that’s rich, coming from Mr. Motorcycle Weekly.” I peel the lumpy bag from my ankle and shove it back into the freezer.
“That’s scheduled downtime. You? You just..
. don’t think.” He nudges the windows partway closed again, but leaves them open just enough for the air to move.
“You get so caught up in whatever you want, you don’t think about the rest of the world.
You don’t pay attention to what’s happening around you. ”
“Whoa! Hey. That’s not fair! Also, it’s just lasagna. Calm down!”
He lowers the shades partway before turning back to me, his face hard.
Okay, no. That’s not normal. He doesn’t even throw a nickname back at me.
“I am fucking calm.” He steps into my personal space. “And this isn’t about lasagna. You know that.”
“Then what is it about?”