Page 38 of No Strings Attached
The answer is always yes.
Amira opens the door, stepping inside first, and I follow, the warmth from the cottage wrapping around me.
I glance around slowly, taking in the familiar, cozy space and faint scent of cedar and florals. There’s a tiny bookshelf in the corner, a coat rack by the door, and the same old fireplace that’s been here longer than either of us.
This place used to feel huge when Worth and I were kids. We’d race from one end to the other, build forts out of couch cushions, fall asleep in our twin beds as our mom read us storybooks. I haven’t been back in years.
Growing up in Nantucket, everything felt simple.
Small town boy, small town life.
Sometimes, I wonder how different things would’ve been if I'd stayed—if I hadn’t moved to a big city to chase the empire Worth and I ended up building. Maybe I wouldn’t be dealing with panic attacks and anxiety. Life would’ve been slower, easier.
But then, I think about what I’ve built in Seattle. The job I love, the sense of purpose, the drive.
I brush the thoughts away.
No point playing what-if with the life I chose, though I still bask in the nostalgia and memories that engulf me.
Amira disappears into the kitchen—unaware of my internal turmoil, her bare feet padding softly against the wood floors. I watch her move and, for a second, I almost forget how complicated all of this is.
She opens a cabinet and rummages around. “You like tea?”
“Sure,” I say, walking over to the fireplace. “What kind?”
“Chamomile.” She lifts the box. “Or… mint.”
I gesture toward the first one. “Chamomile.”
She fills the kettle and sets it on the stove, and while the water heats, I find the old switch for the fireplace and flip it on. The gas ignites with a soft whoosh.
Once the kettle whistles, she pours two mugs, drops in the tea bags, and carries them over to the living room.
Amira sits on the loveseat, wrapping both hands around her cup. I take the couch opposite her, sinking into the cushions and spreading my arms along the backrest.
Her eyes narrow. “What?”
I smirk. “You’re staring.”
“You’re smiling,” she retorts.
I tilt my head, still watching her. “Can’t help it.”
She arches her brow. “Why?”
I take a slow sip of tea.
“Because twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t think I’d be sitting in my childhood home with the woman who’s been living in my head since the second I saw her.”
That throws her. Amira blinks, her fingers tightening ever so slightly around her mug.
Good.
Becauseshe’sthrown me.
Amira doesn’t respond right away, just stares down into her mug.
Then, without looking up, she says, “You know nothing can happen between us, right?”
