The Phoenix store registered a 22 percent increase in customer lifetime value. Flagstaff hit nineteen. The Sedona location—the one my father called a “vanity project” six months ago—is outperforming every legacy-format superstore in the Southwest. Staff retention is up. Workshop attendance is through the roof. And the custom gear-fitting stations are booked solid through the end of the month.
I only need the final report to present to my father. Peyton and her team should have it ready soon. It will be airtight and data-driven, and it’ll force my dad to shut his mouth and listen. She texted me an hour ago that the draft was nearly done. By the time I’m home tomorrow, it’ll be waiting in my inbox.
Home. The word has a different meaning now. It’s warmer. Fuller. A place I’m being pulled toward instead of retreating to.
I pull the tie off, draping it over the back of the desk chair, and shrug out of my suit. In the bathroom, I stand in my boxer briefs in front of the mirror, rolling my neck, cataloging the ache between my shoulder blades from a day of handshakes and store tours.
I take a quick shower before heading out again for dinner with a distributor.
With a towel wrapped around my hips, I get my toiletry bag to brush my teeth since I didn’t have time after a quick lunch on the go. I unzip the main compartment and find a folded note that I didn’t pack.
Peyton’s loopy handwriting is unmistakable.
Didn’t want you to suffer another night of adult mint. I couldn’t fit a tube because of airport security, but the gel in the jar is strawberry toothpaste. Love you, P
She packed me a tiny plastic jar filled with red paste visible through the clear sides.
I close my fist around it. It’s such a small gesture, and yet it’s everything.
The physical distance between us collapses into a single point of need. Not sexual or urgent in the way my body has wanted her from the start. Deeper than that. A bone-level ache to be near the woman who hid strawberry toothpaste in my luggage after she got me hooked on it.
I set the jar on the counter, grab my phone, and dial.
My secretary picks up on the second ring. “Mr. Rockwood?”
“Hi, Rosie, please cancel my dinner tonight. Apologize, tell them I had a family matter come up. Reschedule for next month—I’ll do a video call if they prefer.” I don’t wait for her to finishwriting it down. “And get me on a flight home this evening. Anything with a seat. I don’t care about the airline.”
“Sir, I’m not sure a direct flight will be available?—”
“Whatever it is, book it.”
A pause. “Yes, sir.”
I hang up and look at the jar of strawberry toothpaste on the marble counter.
Then I brush my teeth with it, grinning like an idiot.
* * *
Peyton
I’m in bed getting overly emotional over my latest romance read and feeling sillily lonely, considering Liam only left this morning. Through the windows, the forest is a wall of black against the last bruised strip of twilight.
It’s past nine. I’ve had an early dinner at my parents’. They’ve just settled into their new home, a small cottage with a partial lake view, and are loving life in Blue Crescent Harbor. I thought they’d hate leaving their home and starting a new practice from zero. But they swear they prefer living near me and seem reinvigorated from starting over. And Liam has helped them find their footing in the area with all his business contacts.
Now, I’ve showered and changed into his navy hoodie. I sniff the hem, wishing I could bury my nose in his neck instead—go straight to the source.
I’m still inhaling his scent when the doorbell rings.
I sit bolt upright, my pulse kicking into a higher gear. No one visits at this hour. I didn’t order takeout. And the nearest neighbors are half a mile through dense trees.
The bell rings again.
I swing my legs off the bed and pad to the top of the stairs, bare feet silent on the floor. The foyer below is dark, the porch light casting a rectangle of gold through the glass panels flanking the front door.
A thief wouldn’t ring the bell, I tell myself. A serial killer might. They’re famous for giving courtesy calls. Only in the movies, I hope.
I hop down the stairs, heart in my throat, and cross the foyer. I’m reaching for the deadbolt when the lock clicks from the other side.