Page 31 of No Strings Attached
I scroll through generic holiday texts from business partners, investors, and vague acquaintances and am about to toss the phone on the desk when one message from a number with no name attached catches my eye.
Merry Christmas, Henny. I miss you…
My stomach knots.
I don’t need a name to know who it is.Celia.
Of course she’d reach out today. Holidays were always her soft spot. She used to get annoyingly sentimental around Christmas, claiming it was the only time she ever believed in second chances.
And maybe there was a version of me that once did, too.
I stare at the screen a second longer, thumb hovering above the keyboard. But before I start to spiral and my past can sinkits claws back into my ribs, the office door swings open. Amira steps in.
She stops short when she sees me, one hand still on the doorknob, eyes wide.
“Oh! I’m so sorry. I’m looking for the bathroom.”
I don’t move, just crook a smile. “Next door to your right.”
Amira gives a quick nod, already halfway out when I say, “Wait. Come in.”
Her steps pause.
It’s quiet for a beat. I can practically hear her hesitation through the open door.
Then she steps back in, slowly, shoulders drawn, hands clasped in front of her.
I take her in without even meaning to. She changed out of the clothes she had on the plane and is now in a deep green sweater that falls just off one shoulder, paired with light jeans and running shoes.
She’s beautiful. Maybe even more beautiful than yesterday, and I didn’t think that was possible.
The light from the hallway catches in the waves of her hair, and for a second, I forget what I was going to say.
Amira shifts on her feet, breaking the spell.
“I didn’t know you were working for my mom.”
Her brows lift. “I didn’t even know she was your mom.”
I huff a quiet laugh and lean back in the chair, resting my forearm on the desk. “Fair.”
Amira still hasn’t moved from the doorway.
I should let her go find the damn bathroom and get back to pretending we don’t know each other over sugar cookies and Christmas carols. But instead, I say, “Maybe we should talk about last night.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Amira replies evenly, looking away. “It was a lapse in judgment. A one-time thing.”
My mouth goes dry. The words land harder than theyshould. Not because I didn’t know that already, but because hearing it out loud makes it cold, final.
I push up from the chair, jaw tight. “Right. A lapse in judgment.”
She flinches, hearing the edge in my voice, even though I tried to keep it buried.
“Henson,” she adds, softer now. “Even more so now that Iworkfor your family. It’s a conflict. It’s messy.”
“You don’t work forme, though,” I counter.
Amira crosses her arms. “I’m here to do a job, Henson. One I take seriously. I don’t mix business with—” she pauses, visibly swallowing.
