Page 65 of Suite 7

He spots us. His eyes find mine for a fraction of a second, heat and control, before he smooths into casual neutrality.

“Shopping for a gift.” He crosses to us, hands in pockets. “Mother’s birthday.”

“You’re shopping two months early?” Sloane’s tone turns suspicious.

“I’m organized.” He says it mildly. “You two look like you’ve been busy.”

The sound of his voice alone makes me want to whimper. I bite the inside of my cheek.

“Work wardrobe!” Sloane holds up her bags. “Vera helped me pick out power blazers.”

“Did she?” His eyes move to me. “That was helpful of her.”

The way he says helpful makes my knees weak.

“Yeah, well, someone has to make sure your sister doesn’t show up looking like a college student.” I reach for our usual banter, but my voice comes out softer than intended.

His eyebrow rises. “Careful. That’s my sister you’re critiquing.”

“Someone has to keep her honest. Since you’re clearly too polite to offer constructive criticism.”

“Diplomacy over blunt force.”

“Diplomacy is lying with better vocabulary,” I return.

“And bluntness is rudeness without self-awareness.”

Sloane laughs. “Oh my god, you two. The Smackdown resumes.”

We’re standing close now. Close enough that I catch cedar and citrus. Three days and he’s right there and I can’t touch him.

“Okay, I need to get these home and steam them,” Sloane says, checking her watch. “Vera, Saturday brunch?”

“Absolutely. Text me.”

Sloane heads off. “See you Saturday!”

The moment she’s out of earshot, everything changes.

He doesn’t move toward me. Just lets the distance between us close by half a step, deliberate, and his hand brushes mine. Brief. Electric.

I go very still.

“Day three.” His voice is low, close. Just for me. “You’re doing so well.”

“How much longer?” The words come out before I can stop them. “Please. I need to know.”

He looks at me. “This isn’t about hitting an arbitrary deadline. When you stop asking when and start trusting eventually — that’s when you’ll be ready.”

“But—”

“Be patient, Vera.”

His hand lifts — just slightly, just enough that I know where it was going — and then drops. Too public.

The absence of it sits in my throat.

“Go home,” he says. “Eat something and take care of yourself.”