Zay followed his gaze lazily. Then his eyes landed on her, and every muscle in his body froze.
It didn’t hit right away, not until she turned slightly, and the light caught her face. Not until she laughed with that hand gesture he’d seen a hundred times in her bedroom when she was nervous or unsure. Not until memory filled in the gaps that time tried to erase.
That wasn’tLove T.
That wasPrincess.HisPrincess.
His stomach dropped. He couldn’t hear Malcolm anymore.
His ears rang with the silence that only came when something from your past slammed into your present without warning. Princess—or Love?—was standing just a few feet away, polished and poised, a grown woman now. Her presence hit him like no time had passed at all.
She hadn’t seen him yet, and for a second, he considered walking away. Turning around and pretending none of this had happened.
But he couldn’t. Something magnetic kept him from retreating.
He followed Malcolm, and his feet glided on instinct. His face was blank, even though his chest tightened.
Malcolm gently tapped her on the shoulder.
“Mrs. Tate,” he said with his usual warm charm. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
She turned, mid-conversation with her assistant, and the second she laid eyes on Zay, the breath in her throat stopped cold.
She blinked once, then again. Her lashes fluttered like her body was trying to catch up to her heart.
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her gaze scanned his face. He was slightly older, fuller, with faint lines near his eyes and a faint scar above his brow. His locs were longer now, pulled back. The way he looked at her, with that unreadable expression that always made her heart flutter hadn’t changed. Still intense and quiet. It still read her like a song he never stopped playing.
“Zay Woods,” Malcolm said, unaware of the current between them. “This is Love Tate. She wroteWhen the Rain Stops.”
Love smiled automatically. Her professional instinct kicked in despite how fast her pulse fluttered in her throat. “Nice to meet you,” she said, extending her hand.
Zay extended the gesture.
“Pleasure,” he said. “Congratson the book.”
Their hands lingered for a second too long. Her skin was still soft. Warmer than he remembered. Or maybe he was just colder now.
“Kam!” Malcolm called as Zay’s manager walked over, already mid-laugh. Simone’s stilettos clicked sharp against the floor as she trailed behind him.
“Mrs. Love Tate,” Kam said, offering his hand. “We’ve been hearing nothing but good things. That book is making noise.”
“Thank you,” Love said, her voice steady but quiet.
Tara chimed in with something about distribution channels and publishing partners, and Malcolm picked the conversation right back up. Simone nodded along, offering praise and discussing score composition.
Neither Zay nor Love heard a damn thing.
She tried to focus, nod when appropriate, smile where expected, but her eyes kept slipping toward him. She caught the profile of his face, the way he chewed on the inside of his cheek like he’d always had when he was deep in thought.
He glanced at her whenever she looked away. He’d memorized the slope of her jaw and recalled the softness that still lived behind her eyes. She smelled the same, like something floral and warm. A smell that always reminded him of summer windows and late-night secrets.
They hadn’t spoken in fifteen years, and yet, every inch of air between them felt thick with unfinished sentences and buried confessions.
Someone made a joke, and the group laughed.
Love did too, though her eyes never left the floor. She folded her arms to keep her hands from shaking.
He looked down at her left hand, the same one he used to hold when she’d fall asleep mid-conversation. He noticed there was no ring present. He chewed on the inside of his cheek again.
