I give him a full rundown—the attic noises, Wanda, the kittens, the diner, the almost-kiss I haven’t stopped replaying.Allof it. Including the part where Knox mentioned he’s divorced.And that he seems older, with a maturity most guys my age haven’t figured out yet.
Paxton listens without interrupting, brows slowly climbing, mouth twitching like the effort of staying quiet might actually be hurting him. When I finally stop rambling, the screen goes quiet.
“So…” he says, drawing out the word, “you’re telling me this slightly older, hot Knox guy rescued cats, took you out for pancakes, and then almost kissed you?”
I nod, cheeks heating. “About sums it up.”
He whistles low. “Damn. You really know how to pick your emotional chaos, babe. And just so we’re clear—youwantedhim to kiss you?”
I nod again, slower this time, my lips pressed together.
Paxton’s tone eases. “Then don’t brush that off like it’s nothing. It’s been a long time since you’ve evenconsideredletting someone close.”
I laugh and pull the blanket higher as if it will protect me from the truth. “Tell me I’m not being stupid.”
He tilts his head again, gaze turning warm. “You’re not being stupid. You’re being careful. Which makes sense given all you’ve been through.”
“But?”
“But…” Paxton edges closer to the camera like he’s about to deliver classified information, his already low pitch dipping lower. “You’re an intelligent, grown-ass woman on a break before the next big chapter. Pretty soon, it’s spreadsheets and skyline views and that badass new title in New York. So why not lean into thenowwhile it’s here? Flirt with danger. Live a little. It’s the twenty-first century. Sex doesn’t have to come with emotional strings.” His arched brows are now giving me aduh. “And, since your hot neighbor is freshly divorced, I doubt he’s looking to get emotionally entangled either.”
“You say all that as if you think I could handle something casual.”
“Cami, you overthink pizza toppings. But yeah, I think you could. Especially if you stop treating every kiss,or orgasm, like it’s a loaded weapon.”
That earns a chuckle. He always knows how to disarm me, even when I don’t want to be.
We hang up a few minutes later after he makes me promise to text him all the updates.
Maybe Paxton’s right about letting go.
Just a little.
I carry my cold tea to the sink, rinsing out the cup as late-morning light slips across sea-glass tile and smooth, sand-colored countertops. Dust floats in the sunbeams near the window, and a line of tiny seashells along the sill catches the light.
It’s ironic how quiet the house feels now. Too still. No eerie attic squeaks. Just silence. It should feel peaceful, but instead, it feels like something’s missing. Like Wanda and her tiny babies took more than their rustles and mewls with them. Warmth gathers in my chest. Do I miss those furry noisemakers? Or the man who led their impromptu rescue mission?
With an exhale, I pad over to the stainless steel fridge and tug it open, letting the cool air spill out as I stare blankly at the shelves.
Half a container of Greek yogurt.
A bruised peach.
A lonely lemon.
None of it looks appetizing.
My stomach turns at the idea of food, so I shut the door and lean my forehead against it for a beat before stepping back.
I catch my reflection in the oven door, faint but clear enough. Oversized hoodie. Bed hair. Yesterday’s mascara smudgedbeneath my eyes like thin shadows of things I haven’t fully faced yet.
Letting out a breath, I head upstairs, footsteps soft against the creaky wood floor.
After stripping off my clothes, I step into the shower and twist the knob until steam consumes the room.
Warm water cascades over my skin like a reset button I never asked for. But I let it wash over me anyway, rinsing away sleep, nerves, and thoughts of whatever last night might’ve meant.
By the time I’ve towel-dried my waves and traded loungewear for real clothes, my insides feel less hollow. A swipe of mascara helps enough to make me look like someone who didn’t almost unravel over kittens and a crooked smile.
