At last, the door opens.
A woman enters, stylish and confident, red hair swept to one side.
She smiles politely as she approaches.
“You must be Marco,” she says warmly.
I step forward to shake her hand.
“Vonnie James. I just spoke with Amos. He's running a little late.”
You don't say, I grumble silently.
“We're ready when you are,” I reply cheerfully.
Her thumb taps the phone screen.
She lets it ring for a moment.
No answer.
“He’s probably stuck in traffic,” she bluffs.
Her thumb taps again. Still nothing.
Porter raises an eyebrow.
By now, I’m fuming.
This extreme lack of punctuality is beyond disrespectful.
Who the hell does this guy think he is?
Wasting everybody's morning just because he’s… fucking gorgeous.
Oh sweet mercy.
The front door opens with a casual push.
No rush. No apology.
Just the easy breezy vibe of someone who couldn’t care less about rules.
He carries a takeaway coffee in one hand.
The cup is crushed slightly from his grip.
His sleeves have been pushed back.
Ink wraps from wrist to elbow in layered designs.
This work is intricate, crafted with intimate intention.
The kind of artwork that has been curated thoughtfully over several years.
He strolls in as though he’s arriving on a beach.
“Morning.”
