Page 40 of No Strings Attached
I grin. “We’ll see about that.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it again.
“You surprise me, Henson Miller.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not the guy I expected you to be.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
Her expression softens. “It’s a good thing.”
We fall into silence again, but this one is warmer. More settled.
Amira tucks her knees up under the blanket and sips her tea, her eyes still glancing toward me when she thinks I’m not looking. I don’t press her. I just soak it in.
The fire crackles. The air is still. And for the first time in longer than I want to admit, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
16
WE’RE SCRAPPING THE OYSTERS
AMIRA
It’s been three days since Henson gave me some of the best orgasms of my life in his parents’ home. Since we sat together in front of the fire in the cottage, trading smiles and tea and carefully avoiding the weight of what is building between us.
When I woke up the following morning, I was alone. I didn’t even remember falling asleep. The last thing I recalled was sitting in the living room, warm and relaxed, the fire burning low.
Henson must’ve carried me to bed.
The thought makes my chest ache again. The good kind. The kind that makes it swell a little too much for comfort. I should’ve been grateful for the distance, for the way he didn’t press to stay. But as I stared at the empty space beside me, I felt… disappointed.
I reminded myself of what this is. What it isn’t.
And I’ve been trying to snuff out the feeling ever since.
It doesn’t mean anything.
Christmas Day came and went. I spent it alone in the cottage, on a video call with my family. My mom and I cookedtogether—phone propped up beside the cutting board while she guided me through our usual recipes and asked a hundred questions about the New Year’s Eve event. It wasn’t the same, but it helped. Still, there was a quiet ache I couldn’t shake. Not just from missing my family, but from how often my thoughts wandered back to Henson.
He’d invited me to Christmas dinner with his family, saying it would be casual and no pressure, though I couldn’t bring myself to go. I’d already spent Christmas Eve with them. Showing up again the next day felt too intimate. Toocoupley. And we’re not a couple… right?
That’s the mantra I repeat as I push open the door to The Driftwood Grind, a small coffee shop tucked between a bookstore and a beachwear boutique, the kind of place that smells like nutmeg and sea salt and freshly ground espresso.
I shake the cold from my scarf and slide into a booth near the back, grateful for the heater near my feet. I’m early, but the caterer arrives just minutes after I sit down, bundled in a black coat, cheeks pink from the wind.
“Let’s talk food,” Jules says, plopping the binder on the table and flipping it open.
“We’ve got about a hundred confirmed guests,” I say. “I want to keep it elegant, festive, but nothing that feels stuffy.”
“So we’re scrapping the oysters?” he teases.
“Definitely scrapping the oysters.”
The party is in four days, and everything is on schedule. We’re halfway through going over the menu, final head count, adjusted appetizers, and the revised dessert bar setup since the custom cake has changed, when the bell above the door jingles again. I glance up and pause.
A woman walks in.
