Page 131 of For the Plot
I reach for her chin, tilting it up. “No,” I whisper. “I love youworsethan that. I love you like a man who never believed in redemption until you handed it to him.” Her breath catches. “I love you like I’ll never stop paying for the days I wasted trying not to want you.”
She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. The tears in her eyes say everything.
Back at the condo,I find her in the front room we converted into a studio.
Skye’s on the floor, cross-legged in one of my old T-shirts, hair twisted into something that used to resemble a bun. Her laptop is open beside her, and there are papers everywhere—mock-ups, branding boards, half-drunk coffee, a cat asleep on top of what I assume was an important color palette.
She doesn’t see me right away. She’s chewing on the end of a pen, one hand tucked under her thigh as she scribbles notes in the margin of a sketch. Then she lifts her phone, snaps a photo of the layout, and mutters something like “bold serif is sexier, sorry” under her breath.
Five years ago, she was managing my calendar. Now, she’s managing six clients across three time zones and somehow making it look easy.
I lean against the doorway, taking my time. Just watching her in her element. This version of her, the one who’s thriving, creative, messy in the best way, undoes me more than anything else ever could.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking up.
“Can you blame me?”
Her lips curve, but her eyes stay on her notes. I push off the doorway and step into the room, dodging a few scattered swatches before crouching beside her.
“Brunch is going to be chaos in an hour,” I murmur, brushing a stray curl off her cheek. “You planning to stay in here until they bang on the door?”
She finally looks at me, that spark in her eyes making my chest tighten. “Maybe I was hoping you’d come get me.”
I slide a hand to the small of her back, help her to her feet, and steal a kiss that tastes like her lingering cinnamon coffee. “Oh I’ll get you al right,” I whisper against her mouth. “And I’m joining you in that shower.”
She laughs, soft and warm, and loops her arms around my neck. “If we do that, we’re definitely going to be late.”
“Worth it.” I kiss her again, slower this time, my hands mapping the curve of her hips as she melts against me. For a moment, there’s no brunch, no noise, no family—just this quiet, perfect life we built, her dreams scattered across the floor, and her body in my arms.
Brunch is chaos.
Mimosas are flowing, someone’s laughing too loud, probably Maya, and Skye keeps sliding her bare foot up my calf under the table like she has no regard for my ability to act civilized.
Which she doesn’t. And I love her for it.
“Okay but seriously,” Maya says, stabbing a chunk of avocado toast with theatrical intensity, “can we all take a moment to acknowledge that this all started because I told her to hook up with youfor the plot?”
Skye chokes on her mimosa.
Archer groans and covers his face. His wife Kendall, sweet and sharp and far too tolerant of his bullshit, just laughs.
“Youdid not,” Kendall says to Maya.
“I absolutely did,” Maya replies. “She was spiraling post-Shane, and I told her she needed a hot rebound. Just some good, no strings attached sex, and when I pointedyouout at the bar, that’s when it all kind of fell apart. But I convinced her that it could just be a fun little blip in her story—ya know, something you do for the plot.”
Skye’s face is crimson. “It was supposed to beonenight.”
“You married him,” Maya deadpans. “The plotplottedback.”
Everyone laughs, and I catch Skye’s eye from across the table. She’s glowing. Relaxed. Happy. Exactly how she should be.
“How’s the firefighter?” Skye asks, steering the attention off herself.
Maya’s lips curve into a private smile. “Hot. Obsessive. Knows how to use a hose in and out of uniform.”
Archer groans again. “Why do I come to these things?”
“Because you love us,” Skye singsongs.
