He’s here. Not as a memory or a dream. Not as the ghost that’s been haunting the edges of my heat-fueled nights. Here, flesh and bone and every scent my body remembers.
“Norah,” he says, quiet but clear.
My throat tightens. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Ryker frowns, catching the tension instantly. “You’re with Denzel and Ridge?”
Dorian nods. “Lead architect on the project.”
My stomach sinks. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
Jude, ever the optimist, claps his hands once. “Well, guess that makes collaboration easier. Norah’s in charge of the floral design for the reopening.”
Dorian’s eyes flick to me again. “Of course she is.”
I bristle. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not.” His voice softens, barely audible. “I just didn’t expect?—”
“Me?”
He meets my stare, something raw flickering behind his calm. “This.”
Silence stretches, heavy and electric.
Jude clears his throat. “Right. I’ll, uh, get the measurements from the back room.” He disappears fast, dragging Ryker with him under the excuse of needing to check the insulation.
That leaves us alone.
The air feels charged, too warm. I catch his scent—bergamot, leather, faint heat. It hits like a memory wrapped in temptation. My suppressants hum against my veins, struggling to hold the line.
“You could have told me,” I say, voice low.
“I didn’t know until this morning,” he answers. “My firm was finalizing the details with the mayor. I didn’t think?—”
“That you’d run into me again?” I laugh, sharp. “Fox Hollow’s small, Dorian. You always forget that part.”
His gaze softens. “Norah, can we talk about the other?—”
“Don’t.” I take a step back, needing space, air, anything. “Just—don’t. I’m here to do my job. So are you. Let’s keep it that way.”
He nods slowly, like he’s agreeing with the words but not the meaning. “If that’s what you want.”
“It’s what I need.”
The room hums with the echo of drills and wind rattling the windowpanes. Somewhere outside, a hammer strikes metal. My heartbeat matches it.
I turn to leave before the warmth under my skin can betray me.
CHAPTER NINE
Ryker
By late afternoon,the Fox Hollow Community Hall doesn’t look like the sagging skeleton it was two weeks ago. It looks alive again—barely, but enough.
The old beams gleam under black paint, the floors are scrubbed clean, and Norah’s flowers—calla lilies, inky tulips, and clusters of dyed hydrangea—hang from the ceiling like storm clouds.
Jude said it best earlier: It’s got that perfect mix of “haunted and holy.”
