Page 45 of Waiting for You

"My assistant chose it."

"Then you hired a phenomenal assistant." She slid a second mug of black coffee across the marble toward me. "You're up early."

"Hit the gym."

She gave a knowing nod and held her coffee with both hands, her eyes on the broad kitchen windows. Morning light caught the planes of her face, and for a stretch neither of us spoke. We were good at not talking—because most of what we had, we'd built without ever saying much about it.

"You were restless last night," she said.

I took a sip. "I didn't realize I woke you."

"You didn't. I was already up." She turned the mug in her hands. "I've noticed it for a while. You used to sleep through anything. Lately you're running the treadmill at five in the morning and pretending your schedule demands it."

"My schedule does demand it."

"Xavier." She looked at me, dark eyes steady, and didn't blink. "I'm not building a case against you. I'm asking if you're okay."

I set my coffee down. The question wasn't really a question. It was a verdict she was giving me the chance to confirm, the early mornings and the lost conversations and the wedding weekend already tallied behind her steady eyes. Eliza only asked once she was sure of the answer.

"I'm fine," I said. "The move has been an adjustment. New house, new routine. It takes time to settle."

She watched me for a beat longer than was comfortable.

"Okay," she accepted. Her tone was level, her posture unchanged. She didn't push, didn't challenge, didn't look wounded. She just filed the answer somewhere behind her steady expression and took another sip.

That composure was the thing I respected most about Eliza and the thing that, in moments I refused to examine, felt like the widest gap between us. She never demanded more than I offered. She never pressed for honesty I wasn't volunteering. She made space for whatever I was willing to share and gracefully absorbed the absence of everything I wasn't.

It was an arrangement designed for people who didn't want to be challenged. And until recently, I'd believed that was the same thing as peace.

My phone lit up on the island between us. A text from Violet. I slid the phone over to read it.

She wanted us for lunch, and she wanted me to bring Eliza.

"Violet wants us for lunch," I relayed. "You have any emergencies today?"

"Nothing I can't reschedule. Are they hosting a crowd?"

"She didn't say." I set the phone face-down. "But she usually keeps things small."

Eliza went quiet, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee mug.

"Do you think Sloane will be there?" she finally asked.

I stared at her.

She set the question down between us, eyes on her coffee, and left me room to take it or let it pass. When I didn't answer right away, she didn't look up.

She knew I'd been tangled up with someone long before I met her, someone who'd walked away, someone whose absence had reshaped the man she'd made a partnership with. She'd never asked for the details, and I'd never offered them.

"There's a chance," I admitted. "But I can't say for sure."

She gave a small nod. "I'd like to get to know her better. She seemed interesting."

"She is," I agreed, staring at my coffee.

We walked the few blocks to Violet's penthouse just before lunch. The apartment was warm, flooded with light, clearly prepped to host more people than had shown up. Violet welcomed Eliza with a tight hug. Simon offered a firm handshake, and we settled around the table with drinks, waiting. Sloane was nowhere in sight.

"We're just waiting on one more," Violet announced. "And then Simon and I have something to tell you all."