Chapter 2
POV: AMBER
The meeting dissolves slowly after that.
Not all at once. Not dramatically.
Just chairs scraping the floor, laptops closing, quiet conversations starting as people gather their things.
I keep my eyes on my tablet, pretending to review notes even though the words blur together.
Across the table, Alexander Fitzgerald is still sitting there.
I refuse to look at him again.
Mr. Sterling, however, seems completely energized.
He claps once and rubs his hands together like a man already picturing the finished project.
“All right,” he says, his voice cutting through the noise of people standing and moving. “We’re on a tight schedule, so let’s get organized.”
Everyone settles again, half-standing around their chairs.
“Amber,” he says, turning toward me, “we’re flying out in two days. I want the site visit done before the end of the week.”
“Understood,” I reply immediately.
“The legal groundwork for the marina permits?” he asks.
“Already reviewed,” I answer. “The environmental approval is secured. The harbor authority requested minor revisions to the dock expansion, but nothing that will delay construction.”
He nods, satisfied.
“And zoning?”
“Cleared,” I say. “The residential towers fall within the updated coastal development regulations passed last year. We’ll just need final signatures once the city council reviews the architectural revisions.”
Someone across the table whistles softly.
Mr. Sterling smiles.
“This,” he says, gesturing toward me, “is why she’s leading the project.”
I give a polite nod, but heat crawls up the back of my neck.
Because I can feel it.
Alexander is watching me.
Not casually.
Intently.
I finally risk a glance.
He’s leaning back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, looking completely relaxed.
But his eyes…
They’re fixed on me with a kind of quiet amusement.
Like he’s impressed.
Or entertained.
And somehow that makes my skin prickle with irritation.
Focus, Amber.
Mr. Sterling continues giving instructions.
“Alexander will coordinate the marketing strategy on-site,” he says. “I want the initial campaign direction drafted by the end of the week.”
Alexander nods once.
“Done.”
His voice is calm. Confident.
The same voice that turned my world upside down less than an hour ago.
“Amber will oversee the development logistics,” Mr. Sterling adds. “The two of you will be working closely.”
Working closely.
Fantastic.
“Some of the administrative team will join as well,” he continues. “But the core of this project will be the two of you.”
My stomach tightens.
Two days.
In two days we’re flying back to my hometown together.
Back to the place where everything started.
And everything ended.
The meeting finally breaks for real after that.
People file out of the room in small clusters, already discussing timelines and travel plans.
I gather my things quickly.
Laptop.
Tablet.
Pen.
If I leave now, maybe—
“Amber.”
I freeze.
The room is nearly empty now.
Mr. Sterling has already left.
So has everyone else.
Everyone except him.
Slowly, I straighten.
Alexander is still sitting across the table.
Watching me.
I take a breath and sling my bag over my shoulder.
“We don’t need to go there,” I say before he can speak.
The words come out sharper than I intended.
His eyebrow lifts slightly.
“What exactly is ‘there’?” he asks calmly.
“The past.”
Silence stretches between us.
“I’m serious,” I continue. “This project is important to the company. We’re professionals. We can keep things exactly that way.”
Professional.
Clean.
Controlled.
No old wounds.
No history.
No Xander.
For a moment he just studies me.
Then he nods slowly.
“Professional is fine.”
Relief flickers through me.
Until he continues.
“But pretending we’re strangers might be pushing it.”
My jaw tightens.
“We’re not friends either,” I say quietly.
A shadow moves behind his eyes.
“No,” he agrees. “We’re not.”
I grip the strap of my bag harder.
The last time we spoke flashes through my mind.
A message on my phone.
A handful of sentences that shattered everything.
“You made that pretty clear,” I say.
His gaze sharpens.
For a second it looks like he might say something more.
Something dangerous.
But he doesn’t.
Instead he simply nods once.
“See you tomorrow, Amber.”
I walk out of the room before my composure cracks.
This cannot be happening.
I stare at the ceiling of my apartment, one arm thrown over my eyes.
Alexander Fitzgerald.
Back in my life.
Working with me.
Flying to my hometown with me.
The universe clearly has a twisted sense of humor.
A glass of wine sits on the coffee table beside the couch.
Half empty.
Or half full.
Depending on how generous you’re feeling.
I sit up and drag my hands through my hair.
“No,” I mutter to the empty apartment. “Absolutely not.”
This is a coincidence.
A professional situation.
Nothing more.
People work with their exes all the time.
Right?
I reach for the wine and take another sip, letting the warmth burn down my throat.
Then I grab my phone.
If there’s one person who will understand exactly how catastrophic this is, it’s Patrisha.
She answers on the second ring.
“Why are you calling me sounding like the world is ending?” she asks.
Her voice is amused, relaxed. Probably still at the office finishing the endless sales reports she somehow enjoys dealing with.
“Because it might be.”
“Oh good,” she says dryly. “I was hoping for something dramatic tonight.”
I drag a hand over my face.
“Patrisha…”
Now she sounds more alert.
“What happened?”
I hesitate for half a second.
“You remember Xander?”
There’s a pause.
Then—
“The boy you loved like oxygen and who broke your heart into microscopic pieces?”
“That’s the one.”
Another pause.
“Why are we talking about him?”
Because she knows the story. Every painful detail of it. I told her during those long late nights at the office when we first became friends, back when the scars were still fresh and I needed someone who didn’t know my past to listen.
“Because,” I say weakly, staring at my wine glass, “he just walked into my boardroom today.”
Silence detonates on the other end of the line.
Then—
“He WHAT?”
I lean back against the couch.
“Not just walked in,” I mutter. “He’s the marketing director for the marina project.”
“The marina project,” she repeats slowly.
“The one we’re flying to in two days.”
Another stunned pause.
Then Patrisha groans.
“Oh Amber… this is either a nightmare or the beginning of the most chaotic story ever.”
When I step into my office the next morning, the last person I expect to see is already inside.
Alexander Fitzgerald stands near the wall where my certificates hang.
His back is to me.
Broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his dark suit jacket as he studies the frames, one hand tucked casually into his pocket.
For a second I just stand there.
Because even from behind, he’s unmistakable.
Tall.
Lean.
Built like the years of surfing never really left his body.
My chest tightens before I can stop it.
“What are you doing in my office?”
The words come out sharper than I intend.
He turns slowly.
And there it is.
The full impact of Alexander Fitzgerald.
Blonde hair slightly longer than it used to be, brushed back like he ran a hand through it on the way here. Green eyes sharp and focused. The kind of face that still looks unfairly handsome even after all these years.
His gaze lands on me.
And something flickers there.
Recognition.
Something warmer.
Something dangerous.
As he takes a step closer, a familiar scent reaches me.
Woody.
Masculine.
Expensive.
The kind of cologne that shouldn’t feel like a memory but somehow does, pulling me straight back to summer nights by the ocean and his arms around me.
My stupid heart stumbles.
I force my expression to stay neutral.
He tilts his head slightly.
That same infuriating calm expression on his face.
“Good morning to you too.”
I cross my arms.
“Who let you in?”
“Mr. Sterling.”
“It’s still my office.”
His mouth twitches slightly, like he’s trying not to smile.
“Relax, Amber,” he says. “We’re working together.”
My gaze drops to the desk.
There’s a coffee cup sitting beside my laptop.
I frown.
Alexander notices.
“Latte,” he says casually.
My eyes snap back to his.
“Remember?”
Of course I remember.
It’s been my favorite coffee since I was seventeen.
The fact that he remembers sends a surge of irritation through me.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
A small pause.
“I wanted to.”
I stare at the coffee.
Then back at him.
I refuse to thank him.
Instead I glance toward the wall behind him.
My degrees from college and law school hang there in simple frames.
He follows my gaze.
“Law school,” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
“You finished exactly where you wanted.”
Something tightens in my chest.
“I worked hard for it.”
“I know you did.”
His eyes move across the certificates again.
Then back to me.
“You were always going to end up here.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
His expression softens just slightly.
“It means,” he says quietly, “you’re doing exactly what I always knew you would.”
The words land harder than they should.
I look away first.
Because the last thing I need right now is for Alexander Fitzgerald to sound proud of me.