Page 24 of Dreams and Desires

“Jacob, Juniper!” Dominique’s voice cuts through the sterile air, warm and welcoming, as she approaches us in the waiting area. It surprises me that she’s being nice to me, but it’s a welcome surprise. Her presence instantly lifts Jacob’s spirits, and I can’t help but smile at the effect she has on him.

“Dominique! How’s my favorite doctor?” Jacob’s face lights up, his fatigue momentarily forgotten, as he greets her with genuine enthusiasm.

“I’m doing well, Jacob. Ready for our session today?” Dominique asks, her eyes sparkling with kindness as she looks at him. There’s a softness in her gaze that I don’t miss, a connection that goes beyond the typical doctor-patient relationship.

Jacob nods eagerly, then Dominique turns to me with a smile. “Juniper, I heard about what you did at the town hall. You’re really making adifference with your social media campaigns. It’s impressive.”

“Thanks, Dominique. I just want to protect what we have here,” I reply, grateful for her support. Her words mean more to me than she probably realizes.

Dominique chuckles, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “My husband’s a bit salty about it. He’s been grumbling about how you’re making his job harder.”

Then Dominique looks back at Jacob, her expression softening. “You wanna come with Jacob for the treatment, Juniper?”

But before I can respond, Jacob quickly interjects, “Maybe you can wait here, Juniper? I’ll be fine with Dominique.”

I raise an eyebrow at him, noticing the way his cheeks flush slightly as he speaks. “Sure thing, Jacob. I’ll be right here if you need me,” I say with a knowing smile. It’s clear he wants some time alone with her, and I’m more than happy to oblige.

As they head off together, I settle into one of the waiting room chairs, pulling out my phone. The soft murmur of hospital activity surrounds me, providing a comforting backdrop to my thoughts. I scroll through my social media feed, checking the latest comments on my posts about the park. Each message of support strengthens my resolve, reminding me that what I’m doing matters.

But then, against my will, my mind drifts back to Zade. His smirk, those piercing eyes, and the way his muscles flexed under his shirt when he leaned in close. I hate how just thinking about him can make my heart race and my skin flush. It annoys me how he gets under myskin, turning me on and making me despise myself for it. Why does he have this effect on me?

I shake my head, trying to focus on the present. But then I glance up and feel my stomach drop. There, standing just a few feet away, is the last person I want to see.

Zade, with his eyes locked on mine. And he’s walking straight toward me.

Chapter Eleven

Zade

I’ve been walking on this treadmill for forty-five minutes, and I still feel like I’m crawling out of my own skin.

It’s just past seven. My phone keeps buzzing with back-to-back calls from Brian and two board members. I let them ring. I’m not in the mood to talk about permits or projected revenue. Not tonight.

The treadmill whirs under my feet, steady and fast. I’m barefoot, in gym shorts, no shirt. The kind of setup that looks like discipline from the outside. But this isn’t discipline. This is me avoiding everything.

Including her.

I tried sitting at the desk. Tried opening the reports, the floor plans, the zoning forecasts. But my eyes kept drifting to the edge of the screen. To that goddamn article I keep pretending not to open. The one with her in it.

Juniper. Mid-protest. Shirt rumpled. Paint smeared across her jaw. Hair yanked back like she didn’t care how it looked. Chin high.Eyes locked on the lens like she was daring it to flinch first.

I don’t know what it is about that photo, but it knocks something loose every time.

I bump the speed. It’s too fast for socks, too sharp on the skin, but I don’t stop. I need my body to feel the tension. I need my muscles to catch up to my thoughts or I’ll end up punching a wall.

She’s not the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Not in the way the world defines it. But that’s not what stays with me.

It’s the way she looked at me.

That slap wasn’t just anger. It was a mirror. She saw something in me that I’ve spent a lifetime trying to bury. And she hit it like she knew exactly where to aim.

I hated it.

I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

She doesn’t soften. Doesn’t sweeten her voice to keep the peace. She doesn’t care about the press, the power, the name. She sees right through it. She doesn’t want what I offer because she doesn’t believe men like me ever give without a cost.

And maybe she’s right.

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