Too much sun.
Too much beer.
Too much Sage.
Everyone’s moving slow around the house—coffee, Advil, leftover burgers reheated like that’s a normal breakfast.
My BlackBerry buzzes on the counter.
Work.
Of course.
I stare at the blinking red light like it personally betrayed me.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
Slide deck for Monday. Jim wants revisions. Charts, projections, the whole corporate dog-and-pony show.
I rub my face and say it out loud before I can talk myself out of it.
“I gotta head back early. Prep for tomorrow.”
Tony groans. “It’s Sunday, man.”
“Yeah. And capitalism doesn’t sleep.”
Mark volunteers to drive. Sage doesn’t love it, but she nods like she’s trying to be cool about it.
She gets this little edge when work steals me away. Like she takes it personally.
Like anything that isn’t her is competition.
The drive back is quiet.
Hangover quiet.
Radio low.
Mark drops us at the marina and heads out with a salute.
I walk Sage to the brownstone, offer to carry her bags upstairs.
She kisses me quick instead—lip gloss, mint, sunshine.
“You go work on your slide deck, sweetie,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Sweet.
Too sweet.
Like nothing happened last night.
Like we didn’t almost rip each other’s throats out behind a bar.
I watch her disappear inside.
And for a split second?—
