Chapter 13

“My late godmother’s best friend,” Parker said, still laughing. “She said she knew someone incredible who needed a fresh start. Guess she wasn’t wrong.”

I grinned, half in disbelief. “So wait—when you asked earlier if I was going on a date… you were supposed to be on this date?”

He smirked, looking down at his wine glass. “Technically, yes. But I didn’t really want to go…until I found out it was you.”

My brows lifted. “You were going to bail?”

He gave a half-shrug. “I panicked. I didn’t want to sit across from another stranger and make small talk about shared interests and job titles. I was going to cancel, but when you said you had a date, I… well, I got jealous. So I said yes.”

I blinked. “You got jealous?”

“Painfully,” he admitted with a laugh. “Not my proudest moment.”

I leaned forward, smiling into my wine. “So we were both tricked into a date by the same woman.”

“Seems like destiny had a little help,” he said softly.

Our laughter faded into a quiet stretch of comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t feel like emptiness—but rather, understanding.

We finished dinner, and somewhere between the shared desserts and finishing the bottle of wine, something shifted. There was a look—one I hadn’t seen in years, not since before the lies, before the betrayal. A look that said, I see you.

Back at my apartment, the air between us changed. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t even expected, but it was there—warm, electric.

I invited him in, mostly just to keep talking. At least, that’s what I told myself.

We settled on the couch, still laughing about the godmother setup, and somewhere between a shared blanket and a lingering glance… it happened.

He touched my face gently, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Lindsey,” he murmured, his voice low, careful. “Can I kiss you?”

My heart pounded, but I nodded.

And when his lips touched mine, it felt like something I didn’t even know I’d been craving.

The kiss deepened—slow, exploratory, filled with a tenderness I wasn’t used to. His hands were strong, but never forceful. He moved with intention, like every second with me was something he didn’t want to rush.

He whispered my name again when we pulled apart, as if asking permission without saying the words.

So I took his hand and led him to my bedroom.

We undressed each other slowly, without urgency, like it was a quiet ceremony meant to undo years of pain. He kissed the places that had been neglected, held me like I might disappear. And I let him in—not just physically, but truly in.

Every touch was a quiet promise: You’re not invisible anymore. You’re not just someone’s wife. You’re you.

We moved together like waves meeting in the middle—gentle, intentional, full of reverence. He took his time, and so did I. I was nervous, but he made me feel safe. Seen. Wanted.

When it was over, we lay tangled in the sheets, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my back.

“Wasn’t expecting that,” he whispered.

“Neither was I,” I murmured.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel guilty for choosing myself.

I woke up to the smell of something warm and buttery.

For a second, I forgot where I was. Then I turned in bed and saw the gray light of the London morning filtering through the window, the crumpled sheets beside me still holding Parker’s warmth.

The night before hadn’t been a dream.

I sat up slowly, stretching my arms as I reached for the shirt he’d left draped over a chair. A soft smile pulled at my lips.

From the kitchen, I heard him humming, not well, but endearingly off-key.

When I stepped out, he was standing at the stove, flipping scrambled eggs onto two plates, still shirtless but wearing his watch and a pair of dark gray sweatpants that looked criminally good on him.

He turned when he heard me. “Good morning,” he said with a soft grin. “I made breakfast. Well—attempted it.”

“You cook?” I asked, amused.

“I can cook,” he said proudly. “Doesn’t mean I should. But I figured you deserved something nice to wake up to.”

He handed me a plate and we sat together on the small table near the window, eating quietly at first.

Then he glanced at me. “So… what are we now?”

I blinked. “What?”

He shrugged, half-playful. “I mean, are we friends? Co-workers? A weird office fling?”

I chuckled nervously. “I… don’t know. Friends?”

He squinted. “Friends?” he repeated, as if testing how the word tasted. “You’re telling me last night was… friendship?”

“Okay, maybe not just that,” I admitted with a laugh, running a hand through my hair.

He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Lindsey… I’m not Alex. I know he hurt you. I know it’s hard to trust again. But I’m not him.”

I looked down at my plate. “That’s the thing,” I whispered. “I thought I knew who Alex was. I trusted him. Gave him everything. And he turned out to be someone else entirely.”

“I get that,” Parker said, more serious now. “But I won’t lie to you. I won’t use you. If this means something to you—whatever this is—I’m here.”

I looked up and met his gaze. And I saw no manipulation there. No cold ambition, just warmth, and maybe a little hope.

“Then maybe,” I said slowly, “maybe I’ll give it a chance.”

His smile returned, quiet and content. “Good.”