Heat rose to my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, feeling a mix of embarrassment and nostalgia. He had attended high school with Aaron, my brother. I remembered him as the quiet but sharp-witted guy who was always over at our house during study sessions.
He studied me, his gaze laced with curiosity. “You should be in Dallas with your family. What are you doing here in California?”
I stiffened, the question slicing through me. What could I say? That I’d run away from home seven years ago because my father rejected my relationship with Damon? That my father despised Damon, comparing him to his own conniving father and accusing him of insincerity? No. I couldn’t tell Tyler all that.
“I just needed a change of scenery,” I said lightly, hoping the smile I forced would sell the lie.
He nodded, seemingly convinced. “Still, I wasn’t expecting to find you collapsing on the street. What happened?”
“I’ve been under the weather lately,” I mumbled. “Guess it caught up with me.”
The door creaked open, and the doctor walked in. After a brief examination, he explained that I had the flu and needed to rest, take my medication, and be more cautious about overexerting myself. “You’re free to leave after collecting your prescription from the pharmacy.”
Tyler held up a small paper bag, shaking it gently. “Already taken care of.”
Surprised, I glanced at him. “Thank you.”
As we left the hospital, I stopped outside the main entrance, turning to him. “About the medication... I’ll pay you back.”
He shook his head, his lips curving into an easy smile. “It’s not necessary, darling.”
“Thank you,” I said again, unsure of what else to say. “Where have you been all these years?”
“Paris,” he replied. “Just got back recently. Thought I’d settle down here for a while.”
I hesitated, then said, “Um, about my family…”
“Aaron said they’ve been looking for you,” he said, his voice gentle but firm.
I sighed, my chest tightening at the thought of my brother. We barely talk. And my father, I haven’t spoken to him in over five years, not since I asked him to let me live my life with the one I love.
Regaining my voice, I asked, “Please,can you keep our encounter a secret?"
Tyler’s gaze softened, but he didn’t push. “Sure, Amara,” he said after a pause, though the flicker of surprise in his eyes didn’t escape me.
He drove me home in silence, and as we pulled into the driveway, my stomach churned. Damon’s car was parked outside. My heart sank. So he was back.
Inside, I found him pacing in the living room. The moment he saw me, his expression shifted to one of annoyance and concern. “Where were you? I was worried.”
I dropped my bag by the door and crossed my arms. “Were you worried, or is this just for show?”
His jaw tightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” I said, stepping closer, “you’re good at pretending. Like when you left me last night, barely breathing, to rush to Miranda.”
He bristled, his hands clenching at his sides. “That’s not fair. I saw you today, Amara. In another man’s arms.”
I froze. “So you’re keeping an eye on me now, Damon?”
“Yes,” he said bluntly, his eyes darkening. “What happened? Did he touch you? You probably enjoyed it, considering we couldn’t finish what we started last night.”
The audacity of his words stung, and I yanked my arm from his grasp. “You’ve got some nerve,” I hissed, turning to leave.
Before I could take a step, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me back, pressing me against his chest. “You always walk away when things get hard,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous.
“That’s not my habit,” I shot back, my voice trembling with anger. “It’s yours.”
His grip on me tightened. His touch burned, and despite myself, I flinched. His gaze softened momentarily, guilt flickering in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
I shook my head, my voice breaking. “You left me... while I was ebbing out of life. And for what? Miranda?”
“It’s complicated,” he muttered, his voice heavy with excuses.
I stared at him, waiting for more, but his silence only deepened the rift between us.
I watched him as he stepped closer, his face softening, an expression of regret etched deeply into his features. “Amara,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading. “I messed up. I shouldn’t have left you like that. I was... scared and confused, but I promise—” His hand grazed mine, his touch warm yet tentative. “I’ll never do that again. I swear.”
His sincerity made my heart ache, but skepticism tugged at the edges of my thoughts. I wanted to believe him, to let his words soothe the gnawing doubt, but I’d learned the hard way that promises could break just as easily as they were made.
“Let me make it up to you,” he continued, his eyes searching mine. “I’ll spend the day with you. No distractions, no interruptions. Just us.”
I hesitated but nodded. “Alright.”
He smiled, relief flashing across his face. “Good. Let’s start with lunch.” He was already moving toward the kitchen, his steps quick and determined.
I leaned against the counter as he worked, watching his movements. Damon had always been confident in the kitchen, and it was one of the things I used to admire about him. Pots clanged and the scent of spices filled the air. He glanced back at me, his boyish grin peeking through as he chopped, stirred, and tasted.
“You’re still the show-off chef, I see,” I teased lightly.
“And still the best,” he quipped, throwing me a wink.
When he finally called me to the table, the spread looked incredible. Plates of vibrant dishes sat steaming, evidence of his skill. But as he started dishing out the food, I froze. The distinct shape and scent of crabs hit me, and my stomach churned.
“Why crabs?” I asked, my voice sharp. “You know I’m allergic to them.”
He blinked, caught off guard, then recovered quickly. “Oh, right. Sorry about that.” He set the plate down, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Miranda loves crabs. She introduced me to them, and now I can’t get enough. Did you know she likes them cooked in this special garlic butter sauce? It’s her favorite. She always does this cute thing where she—”
“Stop,” I snapped, my voice trembling with barely contained frustration. His words felt like stabs, each one twisting deeper. I could barely keep my composure as he rambled on about her.
“Amara,” he started, his tone still too light, too oblivious to the storm brewing inside me.
I slammed my hands on the table, cutting him off. “But I’m not Miranda.” My voice echoed, heavy with anger and hurt.
His expression faltered, the reality of my words finally sinking in.
