Page 49 of Just The Way You Aren't

I'm acutely aware of the last time he touched me. In his bed, our bodies tangled together, his hands on my body, his mouth on my skin. The memory lights a fire in my blood despite my determination to stay composed.

His hands still as he reaches the final button. For a heartbeat, I feel his breath against my neck, warm and uneven. The silence stretches between us, charged with everything we're not saying.

I slowly turn to face him, expecting him to step back, to maintain the careful distance we've both been cultivating. But he doesn't move. His eyes lock with mine, the blue darkening with unmistakable hunger. His jaw tightens as he swallows hard.

"Willow," he says, my name almost a physical caress on his lips.

In that moment, I know he's remembering too—the weight of his body over mine, the sounds I made when he touched me just right. His restraint is fracturing, same as mine.

Without thinking, I reach up to brush away one of Mingo’s hairs from his lapel, my fingers lingering against the fine fabric. His hand catches mine, holding it against his chest. I can feel his heart pounding beneath my palm.

We're both perfectly still, caught in the gravity of what we're trying to resist. His thumb strokes once across my wrist, finding my pulse.

"We should go," he says, though he makes no move to release my hand.

I nod shakily. "We should," I agree, but I don't step away.

His gaze drops to my mouth. I wet my lips unconsciously, and his pupils dilate in response. The space between usshrinks, all of my senses locked on him. I see the same intensity in his grim expression as he begins to lower his head toward mine.

Then his phone rings. And rings again.

"Fuck." He tears his gaze away from me and pulls his phone out of his pocket and answers impatiently. "What is it?" he snaps.

I hear a woman’s voice on the other end of the phone and feel a pang of jealousy. Who could it be that he’d take his attention away from me so quickly?

“Oh. Sorry, Mother,” Damien says contritely, and I don’t feel jealous anymore. He looks concerned, worried even. “Are you alright? No, no, please stop crying. I’ll come by right away.” He ends the call and turns to me, chagrined. “I’m sorry. I have to delay our outing for today.”

“That was your mom?” I ask, trying not to pry. “Is she okay?”

He nods. “She’ll be fine, but she needs me right now. It shouldn’t take long.”

“That’s fine. I could go with you,” I offer spontaneously. “I mean, if that’s all right with you.”

Damien’s eyebrows draw together with uncertainty. “I’m not sure that’s?—”

“I took the afternoon off from Silver Hearts to go to The Plaza, so it’s not like I have anything else on my busy schedule.” I grin at him. “Besides, if something’s wrong with your mom, maybe I can help. I do have a way with seniors, in case you haven’t noticed.”

He gives me a look that seems halfway between balking and relief. “I’ve noticed,” he says, then shakes his head. “My mother can be… a handful at times.”

“You say that like I haven’t already met her son.” I wink at him as I step into a pair of flats. “Come on, Damien. Let’s not keep her waiting.”

CHAPTER 17

WILLOW

We head down to his waiting Mercedes. He drives across the city to a mansion-lined street on the Upper East Side. He pulls around to the rear entrance of a massive residence, where a wrought-iron gate slides open to reveal a narrow ramp leading to the underground garage hidden beneath the original carriage house.

He pulls into a designated space as the wrought-iron gate slides shut behind us with a soft, final sound. The underground garage is clean, organized, and dimly lit. Damien gets out and rounds the car to open my door. He doesn’t say anything, just gestures for me to follow. We walk to a discreet door made of heavy oak with an old brass handle that gleams like it’s been polished every week for a hundred years. God, even the garage is elegant and stately.

Damien opens the door for me, and I step ahead of him inside. Immediately, the air changes. It’s warmer, quieter, all the noise of the city left behind. Damien motions me to follow him and we climb a short flight of steps into a vestibule with black-and-white tile underfoot and crown molding overhead.It’s beautiful in that way old things are—sophisticated without trying.

A man in a household staff suit steps out to greet us. “Mr. Langley,” he says. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Nick,” Damien replies. “This is a… friend of mine, Ms. Willow Harper.”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Harper,” Nick says formally, before turning his attention back to Damien. “Mrs. Langley is waiting for you in the blue room.”

“The blue room?” Damien raises a dark eyebrow. “What, is she serving tea?”

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