11. Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Lina
By the time the last lights are dimmed and the doors are locked, the day catches up with me.
After locking everything up with the team, I head home, exhaustion settling deep into my bones.
More than anything, I’m craving a shower—scalding hot water that washes the day off my skin and quiets my thoughts.
Working fifteen-hour days, six days a week, takes its toll.
Val and I both try not to stay until closing, knowing our team can handle it, but truthfully, I rarely have the desire to leave. Most days, I have to be the one who forces Val out the door.
She carries guilt when she leaves early, worried she isn’t doing enough. I remind her that she is. That family matters. That her beautiful baby girl matters.
If things had been different, I would be rushing home every day too. I would go straight to my little guy, holding him as tightly as possible. But things aren’t different.
I try not to linger there. Thinking about Danny pulls me into a place that’s hard to climb out of.
No mother deserves to endure the suffering that comes with the loss of a child, delivered or in utero.
Danny lived for a single hour after I gave birth to him. Embracing him when he was alive and breathing, sensing his warmth, and sorrowfully embracing him once more after he departed, is an experience that will be imprinted on my soul forever.
If he were still alive, I’m not certain I’d be running a bakery. His brief life and his death changed everything. I escaped a marriage that was ruining me, and in the process, discovered a strength I never knew I had. Losing him gave me the bravery to create the life I’d only dreamed of.
Steam still clings to the mirror as I study my reflection and give a small, satisfied shrug.
Being thirty-six, single, with a C-section scar and no living children has given me a new level of insecurity I never expected.
I work out obsessively, almost every night after closing, pushing myself for hours out of boredom and the need to quiet my mind enough to sleep.
My curves are a mix of discipline and genetics. A double-D chest, a small but curvy waist, and glutes built through years of stubborn determination and more squats than any sane person should endure.
Half Korean, half white, I have pale skin, dark hair, and freckles scattered across my nose. The freckles make me appear younger than my mid-thirties, which is useful when I want it to be and mildly irritating when I don’t.
My mixed features tend to throw people off. They can never quite place me, and I see the question before they ever ask it.
Though I carry myself with confidence now, I never mix that confidence with arrogance.
Growing up poor teaches humility early. Growing up multicultural teaches an appreciation for contrast, for difference, for nuance.
But loss—especially the kind inflicted by a narcissist who breaks you down piece by piece—teaches something deeper.
It sharpens empathy until you carry more than you ever thought possible, until you recognize pain in others without a word being spoken.
And still, after everything, I know my worth.
I run my fingers gently over my C-section scar and close my eyes. “Mommy misses you, Danny,” I whisper.
When I open my eyes again, I pull my coat closed and tie it, steadying myself.
“Well, this is as good as it gets,” I say to myself before heading out.
I pull up outside EJ’s house and send him a text, then sit and wait for a reply.
I get out of the car and walk up the driveway to the door. The front porch light is off, but I guess not unusual for EJ.
Even though he asked me to come in, I still knock.
I think, briefly, how strange, and honestly a little lazy, that EJ won’t even bother to greet me at the door. I reach for the doorknob and push it open.
The house is dark. Every light is off.
The hallway stretches out ahead, empty and quiet, shadows pooling where corners should be familiar. From where I stand, I can’t see much to either side. I see there’s a window to the left, where I remember the dining room sits, and the living area to the right, but both disappear into the darkness.
If I want to see anything more, I’ll have to step inside, but my gut feeling is flaring, telling me to turn around and run back to my car.
Something about this seems off. And yet, like the curious idiot I can sometimes be, I stay rooted to the porch.
“EJ?” I call out, my voice sounding louder than I expect in the quiet.
Nothing answers me.
I hesitate, glancing back toward the street. The neighborhood is still, silent, houses dark and tucked in for the night.
Of course it is; it’s nearly eleven o’clock. The rational part of me suggests I walk back to my car and wait there until he decides to actually show himself.
I shift my weight—keys cool in my hand.
“EJ?” I try again, forcing a little humor into my voice. “Is this part of your game?”
The words barely leave my mouth when I hear it. Rustling in the bushes to my left. My heart flutters, and I spin around at the last second to…
Hands wrap around my waist, sudden and firm, pulling me inside.
The door crashes shut behind us, and I gasp as light floods the room, blinding. The world tilts when my back hits the wall, and he’s already there, caging me in, my arms drawn up and held fast before I understand what’s happening.
I see his expression. Grinning. Followed by laughter. Far too pleased with himself.
“Got you,” EJ says, smiling down at me as he holds my wrists in place.
“Not funny,” I snap, shoving my body against his chest, trying to put space between us.
He laughs. “Relax. It was a little funny. You should’ve seen your face.” His grip loosens, but his smile doesn’t. “Besides, fear does interesting things to people. Gets the adrenaline going. Adds a touch of heightened emotion,” he draws out.
“It’s not funny because this is exactly how scary movies start,” I say.
“The girl notices all the warning signs telling her to get the hell out of dodge, and instead, like an idiot, she stands there.” I tilt my head to the ceiling.
“Congratulations. I’ve officially proven I’d be murdered in the first five minutes.
A completely forgettable character.” I glare at him.
“You’re lucky I didn’t knee you in the nuts. ”
My arms are fold after he releases them. I glare up at him, thoroughly annoyed.
From his height, I’m sure I resemble a pouting child. He’s nearly six feet tall, after all.
A long blonde-haired, green-eyed Tinder gem. We were clear from the start: benefits only. No pretending we cared who else came and went from each other’s lives.
We wanted connection when we needed it, and physical relief when we craved it. Simple. Clean. Supposedly uncomplicated.
That was the agreement.
Irritation, however, has a short lifespan when he’s standing there shirtless. One glance at his broad shoulders and sculpted muscles is enough to soften my mood.
Annoyance fades, and appreciation takes its place. Physical attraction tends to recalibrate things.
“Ouch, babe,” he says with a crooked grin. “I think we’re both lucky. If you had kneed me, I wouldn’t be able to do this…”
He leans in, his mouth finding my neck, and whatever tension I had dissolves into a low sound I don’t bother stopping. His kisses linger as he tugs my coat open.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, eyes dropping. “This black lace on you is perfect.”
He dips closer, his voice brushing against my ear. “You look fucking sexy.” A pause. “Let’s have some fun.”
My breath catches as his hand slides into my panties. I gasp, my fingers curling into his shoulders.
“Look at you,” he says, teasing. “Already responsive.”
“Stop talking,” I manage, heat rushing through me, “and do something about it.”
His smile is immediate—satisfied—as he pulls me closer.
I wrap my arms around his neck without thinking. His hand slides to my waist, steady and sure, guiding me backward as we keep kissing—slow steps—until the living room opens around us.
He backs me toward the couch, never breaking contact, and I go willingly, following the quiet insistence in his touch. When we sink down together, he guides me to lay against the cushions.
He follows me down easily, his body settling over mine, one arm braced beside my head as his mouth finds mine again. The kiss deepens.
As the moment crests into something inevitable, something I’ve been in need of for months, the damn doorbell rings.
We both groan in unison.
“Who the hell is that this late?” he mutters.
I express my exasperation.
“Your house. Your problem. And if it’s a woman, tell her it’s my night.”
He laughs. “Or I could ask if she wants to join.”
I shoot him a look. “Absolutely not.”
“All right, all right,” he says, hands up. “I’ll be right back. Probably the neighbor or something.”
He disappears down the hall, and I take the opportunity to step into the bathroom to splash cool water on my neck—steadying myself. When I come back out, the front door is closing.
EJ stands there holding…a Wingstop bag?
I blink. “Did you order food?”
“Nope,” he says, amused. “DoorDash guy had my address and info, but nothing hit my account. Looks like free food.” He lifts the bag, smiling like it’s candy. “You hungry?”
I sigh, half-laughing. “Well, there goes whatever we were doing.”
I shrug. “Yeah. I can eat.”