“I didn’t offer sympathy,” she says gently.
I stare at the skyline beyond her shoulder. “She called tonight, saying she wants to make it right.” I huff a laugh that isn’t real. “You can’t make right what you never stayed for.”
Mya folds her hands, thinking. “Do you want Brianna to see her?”
“I want Bri to be okay.” The answer is automatic. “Every time Vanessa promises and bails, I’m cleaning up the fallout. I’m not running that play again.”
“Maybe if Vanessa really means it, she’ll keep showing up. And if she doesn’t, you protected your daughter from another hit.”
I nod once. The muscle in my jaw finally loosens. “Yeah.”
I don’t know why I’m saying any of this to Mya. Maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s the way she listens, like she can quiet the staticin my head just by standing there. This is dangerous. Lines blur fast when you let someone make the noise stop.
I pull the mask back on and file my vulnerability away, back in the drawer where I keep things that hurt.
“Now, how can I help you?”
“Oh, yeah. The terrace detail. Your note about drainage was right. I rerouted the scupper here.” Mya turns the laptop, walks me through the change.
I look where she points. It’s good. “Fine. Push it.”
Mya nods and starts to stand, then glances at me. “I meant it, by the way. If you ever need to talk.”
Something in my chest warms, but I shut it down.
“I’m good. This isn’t a therapy office after all,” I say, back to clipped. “If you’re done, you can go home.”
She nods, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Good night, Mr. Miller.”
“Night, Ms. Jones.”
The next morning,Mya and I hit the revolving doors of Miller Towers at the same time.
“Morning, Mr. Miller,” she says, before giving security a nod. Constantine beams at her and she flashes those pearly whites back.
I’m irritated for no good reason. He’s being friendly. But I’m not an idiot. I know what he’s looking at. Anyone with eyes can see she’s gorgeous. Most people would trip over themselves to get her attention.
I flash my badge; Mya does the same beside me. We move through together.
“Good morning,” I finally respond.
It’s not exactly awkward between us, but it’s definitely tight around the edges.
I shouldn’t have said that much last night. I went home, stared at a dark ceiling, and mentally tore into myself for handing over pieces I don’t hand to anyone. It was too personal, but what’s done is done.
We walk towards the elevators in silence, and step in together when the car dings open. Without looking, we both reach for the panel.
Our fingers touch.
A clean, electric brush of skin against skin. A spark snaps up my wrist. Mya freezes; so do I. Her breath hitches, audible in the small box, and her chest lifts once, like she’s trying to force oxygen to her ribs.
My gaze flicks to her mouth, then away, but I don’t move my hand.
She’s the first to break, hand curling back to her side, knuckles whitening around her laptop sleeve.
I press fifteen, and the door slides shut.
The air hums as the floors tick up, one by one. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the pulse at her throat beat fast. Mine does the opposite.