Page 69 of The Billionaire I Left Behind

The way her lips part slightly as she watches the screen, the way her fingers absently stroke Buddy’s fur, the way she trusts me enough to lean into me like this. This is real.

And I don’t want it to end. But I also don’t want to ruin it by saying the wrong thing. So, I do nothing but sit there, memorizing this moment.

By the time the movie ends, she’s quiet, tracing circles on Buddy’s back, her gaze distant. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but I do know she’s not ready to say it yet.

That’s okay. Because I’ll wait. For her. For us. For whatever this is turning into.

Chapter twenty-one

Emma

The rhythmic scrape of sandpaper against wood fills the quiet, the repetitive motion grounding me. I push forward, smoothing out the surface of Grandma’s old coffee table, the one she always wanted to refinish but never got the chance to. The scent of sawdust and salt lingers in the air, mixing with the fresh paint fumes from the bookshelves Bryan finished last night.

The house is almost done. It’s strange. The thing that once felt like a burden, this unfinished place, these renovations now feel like a homecoming. A way to close the past and step into something new. Or maybe, step into something familiar.

I exhale, forcing the thought aside just as Stella strides in, a clipboard in hand and her usual no-nonsense energy crackling around her.

"Okay, so for the clinic…" she begins, scanning her notes. "We need to finalize the shelving and decide if we’re going custom or ordering pre-built. Also, the exam table situation, do we go adjustable or basic?"

I nod, wiping my forehead with the back of my wrist. “Adjustable would be better in the long run. Might as well…”

The words vanish from my lips as Bryan walks through. He barely does anything, just passes through the open archway, toolbelt slung low on his hips, his white T-shirt slightly damp from whatever he’s been working on outside.

He nods in our direction, absently adjusting a strap on his belt as he heads toward the kitchen. I can’t stop staring. The way his jeans fit just right, how his forearms flex as he tugs at the strap, the easy, confident way he moves like he belongs here like he’s always belonged here.

My heart gives an embarrassing little skip. I should look away. I should focus on Stella’s list, the clinic, the renovations. I don’t. I track him until he disappears, my stomach twisting in ways I don’t want to acknowledge.

"Busted."

I blink, snapping out of my daze, and whip my gaze back to Stella, who’s grinning.

"What?" I ask, too quickly.

Her smirk deepens. “Caught you staring.”

I scoff, heat crawling up my neck. “I was zoning out.”

Stella folds her arms, still grinning like she just won something. “Oh sure. Zoning out, directly at Bryan. Who, by the way, is ridiculously good-looking and completely obsessed with you.”

I grip the sandpaper too tight. “He’s not…”

“Oh, he is. And more importantly…” She tilts her head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’re into him. Again.”

I shake my head, returning my focus to the table, sanding furiously. “I am not.”

“Emma.” Stella’s voice turns knowing, softer. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but I see it. And he does too.”

I clench my jaw, my hands tightening around the sander as I work faster, more forceful than necessary. Because she’s right. I feel it.

This past month has been… effortless. Bryan is everywhere, helping with the house, with the clinic, pulling me into stolen moments that make my heart stumble. The boat, the fair, the cliffside, the swing, each memory layers over the past like a patch sewn into something worn and loved.

But love? I don’t know if I can name it that yet. I don’t know if I’m ready. Because in just a few weeks, this ends.

The renovations will be done. The three-month agreement will be over. I’ll have my clinic, my future, my independence. And Bryan? He was never part of the plan.

"Emma." Stella nudges my foot with hers, voice softer now. "What are you so afraid of?"

I stop sanding. My fingers loosen around the paper, my pulse loud. The answer presses against my ribs, a whisper I don’t want to admit. Because if I let myself love him again… and he’s the one who leaves this time… I won’t recover.

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