Page 24 of No Strings Attached
No strings attached.
But the idea of walking away from him and pretending last night didn’t happen makes something sharp twist in my chest.
What are you even doing, Amira?I scold myself.You don’t have time for men right now, especially not ones who leave you breathless and smiling like an idiot.
You need a break. A clean slate. A job to throw yourself into.
By the time we land, my throat feels tight. The passengers move around us in a blur, but I feel as if I’m walking underwater.
Henson grabs his bag from the overhead bin and turns toward me, clearing his throat. “Do you need a ride?”
I shake my head quickly, forcing a smile. “No, thank you. You’ve done enough.”
His jaw ticks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. Just nods once. “Alright then.”
And just like that, we go our separate ways.
No dramatic goodbye. No final kiss. No looking back.
Though long after I’ve left the airport, long after I’ve settledinto the little guest cottage that came with the job and changed into something more professional, my mind drifts back to Henson.
To his hands, his voice, and the way he looked at me.
And I hate that even now, with a full schedule ahead and a fresh start within reach, part of me wishes I could go back to last night and do it all over again.
9
YOU’RE A MANCHILD
HENSON
The moment Amira disappears into the airport crowd, I tell myselfit’s fine. That this is exactly how it was supposed to go—clean break, no mess, no follow-up.
But damn, she didn’t even look back.
I rub the back of my neck, fingers pressing into the tight spot at the base of my skull. I’ve had hangovers that left me feeling lighter than this.
Amira leaving without a goodbye shouldn’t hit me the way it does, but it punches my ego in the gut.
I feel like some guy who got ghosted after a date that meant more to him than it should have. But I remind myself: I can get whoever I want,wheneverI want.
I shake it off and head toward the car service waiting for me outside the terminal.
By the time the car rolls down the long driveway toward my parents’ house, I’ve buried the whole thing deep. Our Nantucket place sits like something off a holiday postcard come to life.
The front door swings open before I can knock—and there’s my older brother.
“You’re late,” Worth says, arms crossed.
I smirk. “Fashionably. You should try it sometime.”
My brother exhales through his nose, as if I’m giving him a migraine just by existing. His sweater is neatly pressed, not a hair out of place. Meanwhile, I’m still in my travel clothes, my hoodie half-zipped and my duffel slung over my shoulder like I’m crashing a frat house instead of coming home for the holidays.
It’s a stark contrast to the version of me people usually see, always in a tailored suit. That’s work-mode Henson. Off the clock, I live in joggers like it’s a sport.
“You’re lucky Mom still loves you.”
“Correction—Momadoresme.” I step into the foyer and drop my bag with a heavy thud.
