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“Do what?” I ask, searching her face for a clue.

“Climb the ladder, go for the next goal, or, for you, focus on the next big merger, no matter the cost?”

I open my mouth, then close it. Nobody has ever asked me that before.

“That is what a Morrison Rose man would do.” I hear it as I say it, how hollow it sounds even to my own ears. “My grandfather built the firm from nothing. I grew up hearing about expansion and billable hours before I knew about multiplication. When I first took an interest in acquisitions … it just never let up. I think … somewhere along the line I stopped asking myself if it was something I ever wanted or enjoyed.” My eyes flick to hers briefly. “That is, until I came here.”

“Sounds exhausting,” she says with more empathy than I deserve.

I shrug. “I didn’t know anything else.” Getting up, I head to the door. “Enjoy your bath; I’ll help you home when you’re finished.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m finished clearing the paver patio and the dishes in Phoenix’s unit. She left the exterior door slightly ajar, so I took that as an invitation to clean up from girls’ night.

The bathroom door opens, steam pouring around the doorframe. Her hair is up in a loose bun, robe pulled tight. Skin fresh, dewy, and slightly pink from the heat. She has never looked more beautiful.

“Thank you for the bath, I needed it,” she responds, crutching toward the door.

I rush ahead of her to open it.

“Anytime, I mean it. It’s your place. Come over whenever. You do have a key, my dear Proprietress.”

She scoffs. “That would be most improper, me stepping into a gentleman’s establishment, unchaperoned,” she responds, adopting a Regency accent.

I laugh as I hold the front door open for her, turning on the lights and leading the way toward her side. As she slowly moves up the step, I enter the code for her door. She gives me a glare, and I lift my hands up innocently. I figure if she wanted me out, she would have changed it.

I open the door wide so she can get inside, and she brushes past me. As I say goodnight, she speaks up.

“Jackson.” I peer into her dark eyes. “I’m willing to hear your side.”

Something loosens in my chest for the first time in weeks.

“Not tonight, I’m too tired. But this weekend.”

“Of course, it’s late, you need your rest.”

She nods. “I need to hear it. It will be good for me, for closure. Goodnight.” She taps the door closed behind her, moving inside.

Closure. I hate the word instantly as it lands sharp in my chest, as if signifying the end.

20

PHOENIX

Iwake up disoriented in my not-so-new daybed with high-thread-count sheets. My skin is smooth and soft, but my ankle is sore. Sitting up and hopping to my crutches, my hand grazes over the soft blue robe I borrowed from Jackson, cherry blossom scent still lingering.

Outside, rain falls in a steady, soft patter against the window. The gray day should drag me down—instead, it settles something in me, matching the fog already sitting behind my eyes. I hobble to the kitchen and stop. It’s clean. Cleaner than I left it. Again. I reach for the coffee maker and remember, too late, that I never restocked the pods.

“Gah, Nessa’s dirt tea is going to have to suffice,” I mutter to myself, searching for something hot to drink to wake me up. Then I see it: my favorite coffee pods restocked and neatly organized in a new dispenser. I grab one and shove it into my machine, annoyed by how lining up a few cartridges affects me.

Somehow, comfort keeps looking like Jackson. Fucking. Mercer.

Pushing the thought aside, I grab my Virgo coffee cup and settle onto the couch with my laptop. Nessa banned me from checking my messages all through Zentrology night, which is getting easier by the day.

The top of my inbox has an unread message from Skaden, Lowe & Jones entitled “Offer Letter.” The message is on a template; the slate gray logo at the top and gold writing are sleek and polished. The cursive detail gives off a prestigious air.

The body of the email is formulaic, probably used many times to offer positions over the years. The response is everything I have been chasing in my career. Boiler plate messaging outlining my skills as a top candidate, as they are “impressed by my reputation in Cascadia.” The firm even offers examples of the clientele I will work with and a designated office with a view. The benefits package is impressive and includes a sign-on bonus.

My eyebrows lift at the salary offer. It’s more than I was making at Cascadia by ten percent. Adrenaline kicks in as pride courses through me. The number represents the hours I toiled away, what I had been reaching for. The validation that my hard work is appreciated. Earned.