CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Emery
I shut the door of my apartment, lean my back against it while emitting a little squeal, and slide down it until I’m sitting on the floor.
My pulse is still racing. My body’s humming from last night—and this morning—after exceptional sex.
Him. Me. Waking up without feeling that pang of regret I possibly would have had if we’d done it sooner.
As it is, it’s after one in the afternoon. I’m holding my dress from last night in my hands, and the only thing I have on is one of Lucas’s T-shirts. It hangs off my shoulders, soft and worn and unmistakably him. I lift the collar and press it to my nose.
Soap. Clean. Warm. Lucas.
I close my eyes so I can relive every single moment of last night.
The wanting.
The giving in.
The moment where my body stopped listening to logic and just chose.
It was . . . incredible. He was incredible. Selfless and attentive and he most definitely does not need any sort of improvement if that sweet ache in my body from a night well spent is any indication.
But honestly, sleeping with Lucas was the easy part. I’m not into casual sex, never have been, which means if I’m honest, I’m pretty sure I fell for him weeks ago.
Somewhere between our morning runs and the way he listened when I spoke to him. How he saw things, noticed things, that most people miss entirely. The way he showed up without demanding space in my life.
The way he waited and respected my need for him to wait.
Is that why I kept telling myself no?
Not because of the job.
Not because of the rules.
But because I came here for myself?
Because I promised myself that this move—this city, this job, this fresh start—would be about independence? This move was about building something that didn’t hinge or hadn’t been tainted with someone else’s touch. About choosing me for once instead of orbiting around someone else’s needs.
I rest my forehead against my knees.
And then the thought sneaks in, quiet but insistent.
What if this—last night, Lucas—was me choosing myself?
What if wanting a man who encourages me to take my time, who doesn’t demand, who listens and respects my opinions, who affirms my thoughts, isn’t a compromise, but a standard?
Lucas has never asked me to be anything other than what I already was. He didn’t try to take. He didn’t pressure. He waited until I knocked.
That tells me a lot about his character.
Still, fear curls in my chest.
I’ve always fallen easily. Hard. Fast. Completely.
And I can’t afford to lose myself again. I can’t afford to let chemistry blur judgment. I need to slow this down. Make sure my feet are under me before my heart runs any further ahead.
All these warnings and yet it feels so damn good. I’m happy. He makes me happy.
My smile grows as I lean my head back against the door.
This is a risk.
A real one.
But maybe the risk isn’t falling.
Maybe the risk would have been walking away from something that already feels this true.
I close my eyes, clutch the fabric of his shirt, and let myself sit in the quiet a moment longer—grounded, overwhelmed in the best way—and very aware that whatever comes next, I’m choosing it for myself.
And right now, I have a feeling choosing for myself will include an extremely handsome, six-foot-five football player.