10. Vera #2
My thighs clench involuntarily under the table.
“Maybe.”
“Oh my GOD.” She leans forward. “What is he doing to you? Actually, don’t answer that, I can tell from your face and I’m going to need a moment.”
She fans herself with a napkin in a way that is entirely performative.
“Is he — okay, I’m going to guess.” She sets down her latte with a triumphant little thump.
“He’s incredible in bed. Like, unreasonably good.
The kind of good where you’re lying there afterward thinking about it for days and you can’t concentrate on anything else and your whole body just—“ She waves her hand. “You know.”
I know.
I know so specifically and so urgently that I have to press my thighs together under the table.
“—because that’s exactly what you look like,” Sloane finishes. “A woman who has recently been made very aware of what she’s missing.”
The accuracy of that sentence is genuinely cruel.
“Sloane—”
“Am I wrong?”
You’re not wrong. You’re god knows how many more days early and about forty-eight hours off on the mechanics.
“You’re not entirely wrong,” I manage.
She beams. “I knew it. I could tell the moment you walked in. I know that look. That only comes from one place.” She picks up her latte, satisfied. “What’s he like?”
“He’s—“ I stop. Because the honest answer is: controlled, and certain, and infuriating, and the only person who has ever looked at me like the thing I was most ashamed of wanting was actually the most interesting thing about me. “Complicated.”
“Complicated.” She repeats the word like she’s weighing it. Sets her cup down. “How complicated?”
“The kind you can’t file away.”
She goes quiet in the way she does when she’s actually thinking.
“Have I met him?”
The question lands like a hand on a bruise. I keep my face neutral through what feels like considerable effort.
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because you said complicated like you meant it.” She tilts her head. “And because you’re being careful. You’re never careful when it’s someone new. You get excited and you overshare and you pick it apart with me for two hours.” She studies me. “You’re managing this one.”
“I’m being private.”
“You’re never private.”
“Maybe I’m changing.”
Her eyes hold mine for one beat too long. “Vera.”
“Sloane.”
A pause. The café hums around us. She looks at me the way she looked at the tagline that wasn’t working — like she already knows the answer and is giving the problem one last chance to tell her itself.
Then she lets it go. Files it. Moves on, but I have the distinct feeling she’s bookmarked it somewhere I can’t access, and the conversation isn’t over so much as postponed.
My phone buzzes. Kane’s name lights up the screen.
“Is that him?” Sloane’s eyes go wide, her gaze dropping to where my phone sits screen-down against the table.
“It’s work.” Too quick. She’ll know.
“That was the fastest face-flip I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
That’s absolutely him.” She leans back in her chair, arms crossed, deeply and completely satisfied with herself.
“Vee. Are you actually flustered right now? You never get flustered. Like, genuinely never. This is possibly the best thing that’s ever happened to me. ”
“It’s not—“
“I want to send him a fruit basket.” She raises her latte like she’s making a toast at a wedding. “Whoever he is, wherever he is, he’s clearly doing something very right.”
The guilt twists sharp and immediate before I can stop it.
She means it as a compliment. She has no idea she’s already met him. That he’s sitting somewhere across this city right now, making me wait.
She sets down her cup. “I want details when you’re ready. Real ones. Not the PR-approved version.”
“You’ll be the first,” I say.
And that, at least, is true.
Thursday afternoon, Sloane and I are at Nordstrom when I see him.
Kane.
Walking toward the entrance in dark jeans and a gray henley, looking unfairly good in the late afternoon light.
My entire body reacts before my brain catches up. Heart racing. Skin flushing. Thighs clenching.
Three days. He’s right there.
“Kane!” Sloane waves. “What are you doing here?”
He spots us. His eyes find mine for a fraction of a second, heat and control, before he smooths into casual neutrality.
“Shopping for a gift.” He crosses to us, hands in pockets. “Mother’s birthday.”
“You’re shopping two months early?” Sloane’s tone turns suspicious.
“I’m organized.” He says it mildly. “You two look like you’ve been busy.”
The sound of his voice alone makes me want to whimper. I bite the inside of my cheek.
“Work wardrobe!” Sloane holds up her bags. “Vera helped me pick out power blazers.”
“Did she?” His eyes move to me. “That was helpful of her.”
The way he says helpful makes my knees weak.
“Yeah, well, someone has to make sure your sister doesn’t show up looking like a college student.” I reach for our usual banter, but my voice comes out softer than intended.
His eyebrow rises. “Careful. That’s my sister you’re critiquing.”
“Someone has to keep her honest. Since you’re clearly too polite to offer constructive criticism.”
“Diplomacy over blunt force.”
“Diplomacy is lying with better vocabulary,” I return.
“And bluntness is rudeness without self-awareness.”
Sloane laughs. “Oh my god, you two. The Smackdown resumes.”
We’re standing close now. Close enough that I catch cedar and citrus. Three days and he’s right there and I can’t touch him.
“Okay, I need to get these home and steam them,” Sloane says, checking her watch. “Vera, Saturday brunch?”
“Absolutely. Text me.”
Sloane heads off. “See you Saturday!”
The moment she’s out of earshot, everything changes.
He doesn’t move toward me. Just lets the distance between us close by half a step, deliberate, and his hand brushes mine. Brief. Electric.
I go very still.
“Day three.” His voice is low, close. Just for me. “You’re doing so well.”
“How much longer?” The words come out before I can stop them. “Please. I need to know.”
He looks at me. “This isn’t about hitting an arbitrary deadline. When you stop asking when and start trusting eventually — that’s when you’ll be ready.”
“But—”
“Be patient, Vera.”
His hand lifts — just slightly, just enough that I know where it was going — and then drops. Too public.
The absence of it sits in my throat.
“Go home,” he says. “Eat something and take care of yourself.”
I swallow. “Yes, Sir.”
Then he’s gone.
By the time I find a space on the street, my hands are trembling on the steering wheel.
I sit there.
Three days. Three days of doing exactly what he told me to.