Page 49 of The Billionaire I Left Behind

Emma traces the crack running along its side, her voice quieter now. “I thought it was gone.”

I swallow. “Found it buried behind the shed a few weeks ago.” She glances up, her eyes searching mine. “And you kept it?”

I exhale, gripping the pot and reaching for a small tube of glue in the supply basket. “Yeah, I mean it was worth fixing.” The words aren’t just about the pot.

Emma must have heard the layers beneath them, because something shifts in her gaze. She doesn’t say anything for a long beat. Just watches as I carefully patch the crack, smoothing glue along the break. Then, she smiles. Soft. Real. And not mad.

It shouldn’t feel like a win, but it does. We work in silence after that, finishing the last of the planting. She presses the final bulb into the dirt, patting the soil gently. “Looks good,” she murmurs.

I nod, brushing my hands off on my jeans. “Yeah.”

Neither of us moves. Her hands are still covered in soil, her fingers curled slightly, but she doesn’t pull away from the spot where we kneel, side by side. She looks at me then, really looks, as if debating something.

My pulse kicks up. Something’s shifting between us.

I can feel it in the way her breath hitches, in the way the space between us seems too small, in the way I don’t want this moment to end.

Do I say something? Do I push this, push her the way I’ve been fighting not to?

But before I can decide, she exhales, brushing dirt off her jeans as she stands. “Thanks for this.”

Her voice is light, controlled. Like she’s forcing distance. And maybe she is.

I nod, pushing myself up beside her. “Anytime.”

She lingers for a second longer, then turns toward the house, Buddy trailing behind her. I watch her go; my stomach tight.

And I know now, for sure … this isn’t over.

***

The living room is dimly lit, the lantern on the coffee table casts a warm glow. Outside, the ocean hums softly, waves rolling against the cliffs. The air inside is thick with something I can’t quite name maybe it’s exhaustion from the day’s work in the garden, or maybe it’s Emma.

She’s sitting across from me on the rug, legs folded beneath her, fingers shuffling through a deck of Uno cards like it’s second nature. She looks completely at ease, her hair messy from the wind earlier, cheeks flushed from the warmth of the house. I should look away. I should stop watching her. But I don’t.

Emma glances up, catching me staring, and tilts her head. “What?”

I clear my throat, shifting my weight like it’ll shake off the effect she has on me. “Let’s play.”

Her brows lift, amused. “Uno?”

I nod, reaching for the cards in her hands. My fingers brush hers, and for a second, neither of us move. The small touch sizzles, sending a jolt straight through me, and I see the slight hitch in her breath before she pulls away, straightening her spine.

“I’m warning you now,” she teases, breaking the tension like she doesn’t feel it. “I’m ruthless. Remember?”

I smirk, drawing my first card. “We’ll see about that.”

We fall into an easy rhythm, the game unfolding between playful taunts and accusations of cheating. “You are absolutely stacking the deck,” Emma accuses when I drop anotherDraw Fouron her.

I lean back against the couch, watching her struggle to pick up her extra cards, and shrug. “You’re just mad because I’m winning.”

Her eyes narrow, but there’s a glint of mischief in them, a spark that makes my stomach tighten. “You’re lucky Buddy’s here, or I’d flip this table.”

Buddy lets out a lazy huff from his spot in the corner, thumping his tail like he agrees with her. I chuckle, but my laughter cuts short when she leans forward to slap down her next card, her hair falling over her shoulder in a cascade of soft waves. The scent of lavender reaches me, light, familiar, intoxicating. I grip my next card a little tighter, forcing myself to focus, but she’s too close.

She glances up through her lashes, grinning as she drops another card.Reverse.

I swallow hard. My brain tells me to look away, but my body? My body leans in, drawn to her warmth, the sound of her laugh,the way her fingers tap against the rug in thought. She doesn’t pull away.

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