Page 28 of No Strings Attached
AMIRA
Of all the people I expected to see behind that floral arrangement, Henson was not one of them.
Our eyes lock, and it’s like time folds in on itself, trapping us in this surreal bubble where the scent of pine and eucalyptus fills my nose, and all I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears.
He stares at me as if he’s seeing a ghost.
“I’m so glad you could make it!” Mrs. Nadine Thatcher exclaims, hands outstretched.
I quickly look away from Henson, pretending to admire the arrangement now safely in his hands.
“I’m sorry it took so long. The bouquet is a bit ambitious.” I give her a polite smile.
She laughs, not noticing the static between me and Henson. “Oh, it’s beautiful. Thank you so much for bringing it.”
Nadine gestures between me and Henson. “Amira, this is my son.”
My stomach drops.Her son?
I try to make sense of the moment. I didn’t know—howcould I have known? Nadine never used the last name Miller. She always introduced herself with what I now assume is hermaiden name. And Henson and I never got into specifics about his ties to Nantucket.
It suddenly makes so much horrible sense.
Somehow, we both do the same thing in perfect unspoken agreement: we pretend.
He shifts the bouquet into one hand and extends the other toward me. “Nice to meet you, Amira.”
I go along with it. I hesitate for a second, then take his hand.
The moment our palms connect, my body reacts before my brain can catch up. Warmth shoots up my arm, that stupid, unbearable awareness crackling in my chest like a live wire.
I pull my hand back just a little too fast.
“Likewise,” I say, voice tight.
Nadine beams, oblivious. “Oh, Amira, it’s Christmas Eve, you must stay and join us for dinner.”
I open my mouth to decline, but Henson beats me to it.
“Ma.” His voice is casual yet clipped. “She probably has her own plans.”
“I don’t, actually,” I blurt out, then instantly regret it. Henson looks at me, surprised.
Why did I say that?
Nadine grins. “Perfect! Then it’s settled.”
I press my lips into a smile, nodding like I haven’t just walked into a trap I set myself.
She leads me into the house, chatting about the food and how glad she is that I came. I follow her, hyper-aware of Henson at my side, walking as if he’s been carved from marble.
When we step into the living room, it’s full of people and warmth and laughter.
The space glows with soft golden lights strung along the mantle and woven through garlands laced with pinecones, red ribbons, and tiny gold bells.
Stockings hang neatly beneath the mantle, each one embroideredwith names in gold thread. A cozy fire crackles in the stone hearth.
It’s straight out of a holiday movie.
