“Edge,” he answered, his voice sharp and commanding, a stark contrast to the husky tone he’d been using with me.
I watched as his expression shifted slightly. Still calm, but the faintest crease appeared between his brows. Whoever was on the other end of the line had his full attention, but he never once looked away from me.
“Yes. I know.” His tone was clipped. “I’m handling it.”
He ended the call abruptly, placing the phone back on the counter with a quiet thud. “I have to go,” he said, his voice steady but softer now, as if he was trying to reel himself back in.
“Oh,” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. “Is everything okay?”
Nathan hesitated, his eyes scanning my face like he was committing every detail to memory. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
I nodded, trying to ignore the strange pang of disappointment in my chest.
He stepped away from the counter, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and headed to the front door. As he slid on his jacket, his eyes met mine one last time, and for a fleeting moment, I swore I saw something that made my breath catch.
“See you on Monday.”
“See you on Monday.” I repeated. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with the silence and the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air.
I headed back to the living room and sank onto the couch, the tub of ice cream temporarily forgotten. My thoughts swirled, tangled in the memory of his intense gaze and the subtle shift in the way he spoke to me a few minutes ago.
What just happened?
Nathan Edge was my boss. He was maddening, demanding, and impossible to read. But today, today felt different. Like something was changing between us, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to face what that might mean.
It wasn’t until after Nathan left that I realized something unsettling. I wasn’t upset about him hijacking my date.
I should be. This was the perfect example of Nathan monopolizing my life, taking up so much of my time that I barely had room for a love life.
But I wasn’t upset.
Not even a little bit.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NATHAN
THE SUN WASbarely up when I laced up my running shoes and hit the pavement Sunday morning. The early hours always had a different energy to them. Quiet. Still. The world remained asleep while I worked through everything that had been bouncing around in my head. It wasn’t about the miles or the pace. It was about clearing out the noise, making room for the things that needed to be thought through.
I was so caught up in my head that I barely noticed the ache in my muscles or the sharpness of the morning air. The rhythm of my footsteps, one after another, was all I could focus on. Every time my foot hit the ground, I pushed away another thought, another nagging question. My thoughts began to pull me under, and for a moment, I found myself running slower, the steady beat of my heart in sync with the rhythm of my breathing. But as I rounded the corner, I almost didn’t notice the cemeterycoming into view. It wasn’t far from here. It was close enough that I passed it every time I ran through this neighborhood. The stone gates, the quiet rows of gravestones, the soft, solemn way it always seemed to greet me.
I never liked cemeteries. Yet, here I was again, standing in front of her gravestone. The seven year anniversary.
Seven years.
It felt like a lifetime ago, and still like it was only yesterday.
I bent down, letting my fingers trace the letters of her name—Sophia Edge. The engraving was simple, nothing extravagant, just like her. She didn’t need fancy words or a grand memorial. The memory of her was enough. The smell of her perfume, the sound of her laugh, the way she would tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear when I’d sit beside her on the couch. Those were the things that kept her alive in my heart.
The air was still, and for a moment, I could almost hear her voice, calling me back from the edge of the cemetery. But it was just the wind, rustling through the trees, whispering the same things it always whispered to people like me who came to visit the dead but found no comfort in it.
A hand on my shoulder made me snap back to reality.
It was James, my personal driver. I hadn’t even noticed him walk up. He was always quiet like that, always in the background when I needed him to be. I looked up at him. He gave me a polite nod, but his face was tense.
“Mr. Edge,” he said, his voice low, almost apologetic. “You have a call. It’s your father.”
My gut tightened, but I was numb to it now, too used to the hollow ache of his absence. I nodded, muttering a quiet “Thanks,” before taking the phone from him.I raised it to my ear, bracing myself for the conversation I knew was coming. “Hey, Dad,” I said, trying to sound neutral, even though the words felt like a weight on my tongue.
