I swallow.
Eyes on the page,I remind myself.
“Here,” I stammer, tapping the corner of the diagram.
He runs a finger across the paper.
“You know,” he says. “I might just play it by ear and see how I feel tomorrow night.”
Our shoulders brush again.
His eyes are even more captivating in close proximity.
I melt into a puddle.
Across the room, Porter folds his arms as though this is a spectator sport.
Two opposing weather systems collide.
Me: precise, controlled, determined to manage every detail.
Amos: relaxed, spontaneous, entirely resistant to being managed.
And yet here we stand, side by side, electricity humming between us.
I shuffle the documents again, veering the conversation back to logistics.
But even as we review final details, something has shifted.
This is no longer just a routine meeting.
Control and chaos have overlapped.
Fuck.
This wasn’t part of my plan.
He's a client,I remind myself.
Keep your thoughts in line.
But this man is trouble, and I know it.
The most dangerous kind of distraction.
the second chapter
AMOS
The way I see it, they’re stories written on skin.
Permanent. Intentional.
Moments that people choose to carry with them for the rest of their lives. I reflect on this as I walk toward the bookstore, a paper cup of caffeine in one hand.
People don’t come to me for meaningless ink.
They come with memories. With vulnerable emotions.
