Chapter 62
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
mia
The sight of two mugs sitting side by side doesn’t spook me anymore; they pin a ridiculous smile to my face. After breakfast, he loops my scarf around his neck so his cologne finds me when we part ways at the door. He’s teaching me to drive, so I don’t need an Uber for afternoon pick-ups.
We text the important and unimportant things—banana-bread fails, lunchbox triumphs—until unimportant turns into everything.
By lunch, Moe's Diner is at full capacity.
The espresso machine hisses, forks chime off heavy plates.
We're done with our food, not with our company.
Callie emptied the sugar caddy, her spoon clinking too fast and loud in her mug.
April smirks at her, elbows tidy on the Formica, napkin refolded and squared in front of her.
My phone buzzes: Pres.
I answer with a grin I don’t bother to hide.
“Hey, baby. Where are you?” he asks, and warmth radiates from my ear to my chest.
“Moe’s. Callie’s on a sugar bender and her third cup of coffee. Allegedly. I think they’re spiked. Which is apparently how Callie got ordained online so she can marry us?” He laughs out loud as if that was funny. I angle away, palm cupped over the speaker. “How do I stop her?”
Callie leans in, stage voice on. “I did that because Mia cannot have two maids of honor. Pick a favorite, coward, or I’ll be the priest.”
“We’re not getting married, Callie.”
Pres chimes in from the other side of the line, “Oh yeah, we are. Don’t say hurtful things like that.”
Heat stings my cheeks. “Shut up, you know what I mean. God, your friends are pushy.”
Callie gasps, delighted. “We’re your friends now.” She points the spoon at me like a wand. No, more like a weapon.
April laughs the menace off. “Want my advice? Start therapy immediately.” She turns to Callie and slides a glass of water toward her. “Girl, what's our motto?”
Callie's mouth turns downward before she answers with a mocking voice. “Hydrate before you escalate. This is coffee, not tequila, you know?”
Preston cuts in, amused. “I swear they're worth the headache.”
I meet Callie’s stare while I answer him, “Boundaries are just so very healthy.”
“Unfamiliar with the concept,” Callie says. She’s joking, but she’s also being utterly sincere.
“Not for lack of trying,” April adds, resigned, long used to Callie’s ways.
I soften because I can’t help it. “Hey, everything okay?”
“Better than okay.” His breath hovers against the phone, a half-laugh he can’t seem to keep in. “I just got the most fantastic news and can’t wait to share it with you. In person. Can I meet you there?”
Callie’s ear is practically glued to my cheek. “We’re done here. Moe’s giving us the stink-eye. Give us fifteen minutes, and we’ll hand-deliver her, boss.”
I flinch back. “Privacy, please?”
Callie shrugs. “Another foreign word.”
April snorts mid-sip and blots a drip off her shirt. She nudges the glass until it taps Callie’s knuckles. “Seriously, let’s water down the caffeine. And the sugar, for goodness’s sake.”
My right leg bounces, matching my heartbeat. “See you in fifteen,” I tell him. The last bit slips out on its own. “Love you.”
April’s eyes light up. “We’re saying ‘I love you’ now? Excellent. Debrief us stat. Who said it first?”
“Chronology, people,” Callie demands, clapping. “Tell us about the first kiss. The first time you two… oh God.” She gags theatrically, hand over her mouth. “Wait, let me convince my brain it’s not my best friend’s dick you'll be talking about.”
“Drink your water,” April says, unruffled. “And we are not talking sex in a public establishment where everyone knows us.” She nods with a plastered smile to a passing waitress.
Callie deflates, then perks. “Code names, then.”
“Bill, please,” I call, waving at Moe himself, who arches an eyebrow at the three-woman circus in booth four.
Callie flips a black Amex onto the table. When I reach for my purse, April lays a hand over mine and gives one small shake I translate as don’t bother.
I toss my card anyway. Callie snorts. “Oh, sweet London child of mine, your money’s no good here.
Don’t you know I’m an heir? I have more money than time left on this Earth.
I’m not a Liam-level billionaire because I have too much integrity.
” She shoots April a playful, but shady look.
“I donate the surplus. And I work because cracked bones get me high. I freaking love it.” She hands me back my Visa.
“I gave up arguing bills years ago. Not worth it,” April says, standing, as the server taps Callie’s card. “It stops being weird after a while. You’ll get used to it, I promise.”
Of course I knew Callie was well off, but I hadn’t clocked she was that loaded. I pocket my card, then my phone—still warm from his voice. Lord, I’ve fallen that deep. I mentally facepalm myself.
The diner noise settles to a friendly buzz. Three mugs on the table. Two women who claimed my friendship without asking. It hits low and good. It isn’t just Preston and Lily turning New York into home. I’m feeling damn lucky today.
Callie steps between us and hooks our arms. “Fifteen minutes to the hospital, ten if we race.”
“We’re not racing,” April and I say together.
We step out, and cold air rushes in—city breath, people streaming both ways, a hint of pastry from next door. I tuck my scarf tighter and Pres’s cologne puts a smile on my face.
Callie squeezes my forearm. “Any idea what the news is?”
“No clue, but he sounded giddy.”
“Then move,” Callie orders, picking up our pace, arms still linked. “For romance. And curiosity. Put some pep in your step, ladies.”
* * *
Preston’s office smells faintly of antiseptic and him—cedar warming under the vent’s low whirr. He locks the door with a quick twist, and I spot a manila folder waiting on the desk.
“Come here,” he says softly, guiding me in. He opens the folder and slides out a single page. Embossed seal. Index number. Her name. His. Judgment of Divorce.
He doesn’t look at the paper; he watches me read it. My vision wavers once, confused as to what this means. I blink until the letters hold.
“It’s final,” he says, and I hear the relief. It’s bone-deep. “Signed and entered this morning.”
I touch the edge of the paper, then meet his eyes. “You look lighter.”
“I am.” He exhales as if breaking surface after months underwater. “I wanted to tell you first.”
My forehead finds his sternum. His palm settles at the small of my back, warm, sure. We stand there until my breath matches his.
“So… paperwork says you’re officially dateable,” I murmur into his shirt.
His laugh is lighter than air. Unapologetic.
“Paperwork says I’m marriageable.”
“Always in such a rush.”
“To be with you? Yes.”
Heat climbs my throat. I tip my chin up, and he meets my lips—one slow kiss, sealing a promise that needs no translation. The world narrows to the warmth between us.
“God,” he rasps, voice shot to velvet, pulling me closer, “I’d take you on this desk if I didn’t have surgery in twenty.”
“I can wait,” I whisper, breathless and smug.
“It’ll be at least three hours.”
“Then you’d better make it worth my time,” I say, catching his tie. “And keep the white coat on.”
His jaw tightens, the filth in his smile doing something to gravity. “Fuck, baby—almost thirty years in medicine and you’re the one to give me a doctor kink.” His lips drop to my neck. “I’m going to earn every minute of your patience.”
“Go scrub in,” I say, stepping back and unzipping my pants just enough to make his chin drop.
“What are you doing?”
“Making myself comfortable.”
“Mia, stop.” It’s a half beg, half order; none of it convincing. “I can’t walk out there with a hard-on.”
“Then you'd better hurry, Doctor. Because I intend to lie back on that exam table and keep myself busy while I wait.”
He yanks my top down before I can strip it all off and curses under his breath.
“Lock the door,” he says in a hurry. “Fuck’s sake. Double-check the bolt.”
He kisses me. Untamed, hard, and maybe a bit punishing too. “You’re this perfect and expect me not to propose now that I can? Good luck with that, Miss Thorne. It’s coming.”