Page 97 of Just The Way You Aren't

I end the call with a sigh, looking up to find Damien watching me, his expression unreadable.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

"One of our seniors fell. I need to get home and change so I can run to the hospital." I push back from the table. "I'm so sorry to cut our morning short."

He shakes his head. "Don't apologize. It's important."

As if on cue, his own phone pings with an incoming message. He glances at it and his jaw tightens. "Alfred," he mutters, his fingers flying over the screen as he types a response.

The moment feels ironic somehow—both of us pulled back to our separate responsibilities, our separate worlds.Last night seems suddenly distant, like a dream I'm just waking from.

"Time for this Cinderella to get back to her pumpkin, I guess," I say with a light laugh.

Damien looks up sharply from his phone. "Sorry, what?"

"Nothing." I offer a smile I don't entirely feel. "Just... real life returning."

He sets his phone down, reaching across the table to take my hand. "Willow, last night wasn't?—"

His phone rings loudly, cutting him off. He glances at the display and frowns. "It's Guardian Productions. I missed several voice mails from them last night."

"You should take the call," I tell him. "It sounds important."

He hesitates, then picks up the phone. "Langley speaking."

I excuse myself to find my Louboutins, giving him privacy for his call. By the time I return, dress bag in hand, he's pacing the length of the dining room, his expression drawn into the focused, professional mask I recognize from our early days together.

"Yes, I understand the urgency," he's saying. "I can be there in thirty minutes." He pauses, listening. "No, that won't work. We need the architects to sign off on the changes before... Right. I'll handle it."

He ends the call with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be. I understand." And I do. This is his world—urgent calls, multimillion-dollar decisions, people waiting on his word. "I should get going anyway. Mrs. Reynolds doesn't like to be kept waiting, especially when she's the one in the hospital bed."

"I'll drop you at your apartment on my way to the office," he offers.

"You don't have to do that. I can grab a cab."

"It's on my way," he insists, though I'm fairly certain the hospital is in the opposite direction from his office. “I’ll call my driver to bring the car around for us now.”

I don't argue. Part of me wants to prolong our time together, even if it's just a car ride through morning traffic. I feel suddenly uncertain, suspended between the magic of last night and the reality of today. Damien seems equally distant, his mind already on Guardian Productions and whatever crisis Alfred has manufactured.

We ride the elevator down to the garage in silence. The car that awaits us isn't his Mercedes but a sleek black town car with a driver at the wheel.

"Heinrich has your address," Damien explains. "I need to make some calls on the way."

I nod, clutching my garment bag closer, feeling oddly like a one-night stand being politely dispatched. Which is ridiculous—everything is different now. We've known each other for weeks, shared conversations far more intimate than sex. Yet something has shifted this morning, and I can't quite put my finger on what.

As we slide into the back seat, Damien immediately opens his laptop, though he places his free hand on my knee in what feels like an apologetic gesture. I watch the city pass by outside my window, trying to recalibrate my expectations. Last night was extraordinary, yes, but it was also the culmination of our professional arrangement—the fundraiser we'd been working toward.

What happens now?

My phone buzzes again. Another call from Silver Hearts, another emergency to handle. I take it, discussing medication schedules and transportation arrangements while Damienconducts his own business beside me. Our shoulders touch, but we're each in our own worlds, speaking different languages.

By the time we reach my neighborhood, I've fielded three calls and Damien has responded to at least a dozen emails. The distance between us feels wider with each block.

Damien closes his laptop, finally turning his full attention to me. "I'll walk you up."

"No need. You have meetings to get to." I gather my things, suddenly eager to escape the confines of the car, to get back to my chaotic apartment with my needy pets and mismatched furniture. Back to where I know who I am.

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