Page 34 of The Billionaire I Left Behind

But that’s not this Bryan. This Bryan thinks I’m a mistake. This Bryan doesn’t want me. I grip the hem of my sweatshirt, fingers curling into the fabric, my pulse a dull roar in my ears.

I want to talk. I want to ask him why he’s announcing my business around town. I want to ask if he really said those things, if I was just fooling myself thinking he genuinely cares instead of all his kindness being just business.

But I can’t. So, I press the words down, bury them deep. “I’m just tired,” I murmur instead.

Bryan watches me for a moment, like he’s weighing whether to push or let it go. Then, slowly, he nods. His silence should be a relief, but it isn’t. Because he doesn’t leave. He just stays.

He’s sitting beside me, close enough that I can feel his warmth, close enough that if I let my guard down, if I let myself shift even slightly, my shoulder would brush his. I don’t. I can’t.

Instead, I focus on Buddy, fingers scratching behind his ears, the steady rise and fall of his breathing the only thing keeping me grounded.

Minutes pass. Neither of us speaks. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s heavy. Thick with everything we don’t say.

Then Bryan exhales, shifting slightly, his voice lower than before. “He knows you’re off,” he says, nodding toward Buddy. “Me too.”

My fingers still. The air between us tightens. My throat locks up, the fight to keep everything contained suddenly so much harder than before.

I swallow, gripping the fabric of my sweatshirt so tight my knuckles turn white. I should brush it off again. I should get up, pretend like I don’t care, make some excuse and escape upstairs.

But I can’t move. Because he’s looking at me now, really looking. And for the first time since this whole mess started, I don’t know if I have the strength to keep pretending.

Chapter ten

Bryan

The sun’s high overhead by the time I finish digging out the last of the overgrown weeds. My shirt’s damp with sweat, dirt streaking my forearms, but I barely notice. My focus is on the small patch of earth in front of me, the forgotten garden, the one Emma used to tend with that soft, devoted care she had for everything that breathed.

It’s been buried for years under weeds and tangled vines, forgotten just like everything else we left behind. But today, something in me refuses to let it stay that way. Maybe it’s guilt.

Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t seen her properly in days, just glimpses in the morning when she rushes out, exhaustion on her face when she drags herself home late at night. I tell myself I don’t care, and that it’s good she’s keeping her distance.

But the ache in my chest every time I walk past her empty parts of the house says otherwise.

Buddy sprawls under a tree nearby, his snores mixing with the distant crash of the waves below the cliffs. I drop my shovel,running an arm over my forehead, the salt breeze is cool against my overheated skin. And then, the sound of a door creaking open.

I glance up just as Emma steps onto the porch, a coffee mug clutched between her hands. She’s in one of those oversized sweaters she always wears when she’s comfortable, her hair loose, the morning sun catching the golden strands. It reminds me of how she usually preferred to wear my clothes back them.

She stops mid-step when she sees the garden, her eyes widening. For a second, she just stares. Then, in a whisper, she says, “You’re fixing it?”

I shrug, rolling my shoulders. “Figured it was time.”

Her gaze flicks to me, then back to the freshly unearthed flowerbed. She moves slowly, stepping off the porch, the wood creaking beneath her feet. The closer she gets, the more I notice the way her fingers tighten around her mug, knuckles pale like she’s gripping onto something she can’t quite name.

She kneels beside the bed, running a hand lightly over the turned soil. Her lips press together, eyes distant, lost in whatever memory this place pulls out of her.

“Grandma used to sit here,” she murmurs, tracing a finger over a tangled root. “Telling stories.”

I nod, my voice coming rough. “And her terrible jokes.”

Emma glances up, a flicker of something warm in her gaze. “Yeah.” A small smile tugs at her lips. “Like that one about the roses.”

I can’t stop the corner of my mouth from twitching. “She thought she was hilarious.”

Emma’s laugh is soft, the sound like wind through the trees, light, nostalgic. “She was.”

Silence stretches between us, but it isn’t awkward. For the first time in days, it feels... normal. Like the weight of everything between us is momentarily lighter.

Then, before I can stop myself, the words slip out. “I missed you here.”

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