Too bad it’s temporary.This is what you wanted,I remind myself.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my tireless inner monologue to quiet down.
Later, we lie side by side, staring up at the ceiling. Our bodies almost touch—but not quite—like crossing that last inch would break some new rule. Ridiculous, given what we just did—yet somehow this feels more intimate. I let my pinky graze his hand. Worth catches the hint, draws my fingers into his, and rubs his thumb slowly over my palm.
Without looking at me, he asks, “Just for now?” His voice is low.
I nod. “Just for now.”
44
WORTH
My stomach is in a fist.
Nerves buzz under my skin—but I’m ready.
Today, I walk in as Brianna’s father. Everything else is noise.
First, I stop at work, because life doesn’t pause for anything. The elevator doors slide open on the fifteenth floor, and I say good morning and nod to passing employees, then head down the glass corridor.
Shaina’s desk sits empty. The day after she started spewing nonsense about being in my office, the HR clerk, scared of losing her job, went straight to Claire and told her everything. She handled it and terminated Shaina the next morning.
Good riddance.
I push through my door and set my briefcase on my desk. The new Paris project package is sitting atop of it: a three-inch block of paper with several tabs.
I sigh, shrugging out of my coat, rolling my shoulders once, and flip to the flagged pages. The terms are exactly as we negotiated—conservative on timeline, aggressive on quality control, plenty of outs if the market blinks. I uncap my pen and sign where the red arrows tell me to.
“Brother.”
I glance up. Henson is leaning in the doorway.
“You look like you haven’t slept,” Henson says.
Translation: you look like shit.
“I’ll sleep after the judge rules,” I answer.
Griffin steps in behind him. “You’ve got this. The case is clean. You’re the steady parent. Everybody can see it.”
“Textbook,” Henson adds. “And if it isn’t, I’ll file a textbook at the judge.”
I huff something like a laugh. “Appreciate the confidence.”
Henson sobers. “Seriously. Good luck in there today.”
My throat works around the word. “Thanks.”
We’re silent for a second, then Henson slides a small wrapped candy across my desk. “For after,” he says with a chuckle. “Because you’ll forget to eat.”
“Get out of my office,” I tell him, pocketing the sweet with a smile.
He grins. “Text when you’re done.”
They peel off, and I’m alone again with the Paris file and the clock. I initial the last page, place the stack into the outbox, and breathe once, slowly.
It’s time to go.