Page 63 of A Simple Reminder

“One more thing.”

I internally groan. Can’t he just let me be? It’s already humiliating enough, standing here being scolded while pretending nothing has happened between us.

But as I start to move toward the door, his voice drops. I turn around, heart stuttering in my chest. He’s right behind me—damn it. I didn’t even hear him move. His presence is suffocating, his body towering. His eyes are dark, sharp, like they’re burning into mine, his anger simmering just beneath the surface.

“Next time,” he growls, the words dripping with intent, low and deliberate, “you don’t leave my bed without saying goodbye. Do you understand?”

The air in the room thickens. My breath falters. I blink, caught completely off guard, disoriented by his proximity, his audacity and by the heat of his body close to mine. “Excuse me?” I ask defiantly, fighting to keep the edge. Next time? No way.

His masculine scent surrounds me, intoxicating, his body so close I can feel the weight of him like a threat in the air. His muscles shift as he leans just a bit closer, his gaze searing through me. All of it—his eyes, his strength, the tension that builds between us—won’t get to me. I’m stronger than that.

But the thought ofnext timemakes my body betray me. He makes me feel so good. My pulse quickens, and heat spreads through my veins at the idea of him—of us—again. Would it be so bad?

“You. Don’t. Leave. Without. Telling. Me.” Each word is a command, heavy with warning, the kind that leaves no room for negotiation.

The weight of his stare presses against me, both pulling me in and pushing me away at the same time. Why is he doing this? Why does he have to stand there, that close, filling the space between us with a tension that’s almost unbearable?

“There won’t be a next time,” I whisper, my voice shaky, betraying me, even though my mind is screaming at me to stay strong. I can’t even convince myself. My body knows exactly what it wants, but I refuse to let it show. We can’t do this. We can't.

Liam's lips curl into a slow, knowing smile—one that tells me he knows exactly what I’m feeling. His eyes never leave mine, dark with something I can't name, but it hits me in the chest like a jolt of electricity. My heart stumbles, desire coiling deep in my belly.

I need to leave. Ishouldleave. But my body is frozen, drawn in by him in a way that makes every instinct in me scream to get closer, to give in.

I try to pull away, but he leans in, his lips dangerously close—too close. “You can walk away, Sophie,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with longing, withpromise. “But we both know you won’t be able to stop thinking about how I made you scream my name.”

It’s getting too hot in here. My skin flushes, my breath shallow as I feel the heat of him—his body, his presence—surround me. Something shifts inside me, but I fight against it. I can’t let him win. Not like this.

I need to leave. Iwantto leave. But my body doesn’t listen. My hand finally finds the doorknob, gripping it with white-knuckled intensity, as if that’s the only thing keeping me from falling into his arms like a pathetic slave to my own desires.

His hand shoots out, palm flat against the door, just inches from my head. His touch isn’t on me, but it feels like it is. His body is impossibly close, his warmth enveloping me as he leans forward, his breath brushing against my cheek.

I glance up at him, heart pounding, but his eyes don’t waver. They’re locked on mine.

“Don’t pretend you’re done with me,” he says, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. His fingers brush the edge of my hair, so light I barely feel it, but it sends shivers down my spine. “You’re not. And we both know it. But if you really want to believe it, then say it.”

“Say you don’t want me,” he commands softly, his voice a velvet growl that wraps around me like a chain. “Make me believe you.”

I swallow hard. My throat tightens. I should say it. Ishouldsay it. But the words stick in my chest, refusing to come out.

He smiles—slowly, deliberately—like he knows exactly what I’m feeling, and it only fuels the fire between us.

His hand slides off the door, “You can run away now,” he murmurs, but there’s no challenge in it. It's almost a suggestion, a tease, as if daring me to try and escape the pull he’s created, “You will be back.”

I don’t look at him. I can’t. I force the door open, the coolness of the wood against my palm the only thing keeping me grounded. But as I walk away, I can feel him—his presence—his eyes on my back, like he’s already branded me, leaving his mark even as I try to escape.

I takea sip of my coffee—my cold, forgotten coffee. I’ve been sitting at this spot in the café down the street for about three hours now, and with each passing hour, my anger only intensifies. Two men in my life, two infuriating men, have managed to crawl under my skin. Both in different ways, but equally maddening.

The coffee didn’t help, its bitterness matching the bitterness in my chest. One sip after another, I replay the events in my head—Liam’s smug, possessive behavior and Jared’s…Well, Jared just being Jared. Both pushing buttons I didn’t even know I had.

What gives men the audacity? That’s a question I’ve asked myself for years. Honestly, it’s like they’re all born with this manual of unwarranted confidence and a sprinkle of “I know best” attitude. Why do they still think they’re God’s gift to us? Is it the hair gel? The gym routine? Maybe they get it with their first boner—suddenly, they think the world should just bow at their feet.

They use it to annoy the hell out of us, to make us question our sanity while they strut around with that smug, self-assured look, thinking they've got it all figured out. Spoiler alert:they don’t.

I take another sip of my now completely ice-cold coffee, grimacing. Fitting, really. That's exactly how I should be to succeed. Cold. Detached. Like a man. Say what I want. Take what I want. Unapologetically. Maybe that’s the way to go in life.

No more overthinking, no more considering everyone else's feelings above mine. No more tiptoeing around them, no more playing nice, no more bending over backward to make others comfortable. Maybe it’s time to flip the script and start playing to win.

My whole conversation with Liam has been echoing in my mind, looping endlessly. He’s the boss—his job is to judge the work, not make me feel small. He should’ve just chosen a damn concept, and that should’ve been that. But no, not Liam. He had to keep me in his office like a child in detention, and worse, he had to bring up what we did. What is that, some macho-alpha-man power play?

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