Stuffed Sneak Peek

Prologue - Tessa

Three months earlier…

I sit cross-legged on Ivy's apartment floor, surrounded by rejection letters from banks. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the scattered papers. I pick up the most recent one, from Chicago First National, and read the familiar words again: "While your business plan shows promise…"

"Stop torturing yourself," Ivy says, grabbing the letter and crumpling it. "We knew traditional funding would be a long shot."

"Seven banks." I pull out my meticulous spreadsheet. "Seven rejections. Maybe we're crazy to think we can do this."

"Not crazy." Ivy opens her laptop, showing our savings tracker. "Look. My catering side gigs brought in another two thousand dollars this month. And our online bakery orders are steadily increasing."

I glance at my own numbers—the overtime at my accounting job, the weekend wedding cake orders, the consultation fees from helping other small businesses with their books. Every penny carefully tracked and saved.

"Fifty-eight thousand," I say softly. "We're still forty-two thousand short of what we need."

"But closer than we were six months ago." Ivy pulls out our vision board—photos of our dream bakery space, sketches of interior designs, magazine clippings of the kind of community hub we want to create.

"Remember why we're doing this," she continues. "Not just for us. For everyone who needs a place to belong."

I think of the homeless teenager I met last week whom I'd bought breakfast for. How his eyes lit up at the simple kindness of warm food. I think of our plans to partner with local shelters, to offer job training and second chances.

My phone buzzes—another wedding cake inquiry. Next to it, a notification from my investment app showing the small returns on our careful savings.

“Another wedding cake order.” I hold up my phone. “I can help decorate.” I’ve actually become quite the baker’s assistant for Ivy when it comes to decorating cakes. In fact, it’s something I’ve grown to really enjoy perfecting over the last few years.

“Did Suzette say anything more about letting us use that bakery place we’re looking at since it’s been on the market so long?” 

"Yeah, she said it’s fine. The owner agreed to a short lease she wants us to look over.” 

“Good.” Ivy sighs, her shoulders sagging. I can see the stress on her face and it kills me that we’re still struggling this hard after everything we’ve sacrificed to get here.

“We're doing this the hard way because it's worth doing right," I finally say. "No cutting corners, no compromising our vision."

"Exactly." Ivy starts pinning our latest profit projections next to the vision board. "And even if we can’t get the money together before our deadline, we always have investors. I know we’ve wanted to do this purely on our own, but you never know. There could be the perfect investor out there, just waiting to meet us."

I nod. "You’re right, and if that person is out there, when they meet us, they’ll see we're not just dreamers." I straighten my shoulders. "We're fighters."

The sun sets as we work, updating spreadsheets and refining projections. On my phone, another notification pops up—this time from my parents' RV blog, showing them at the Grand Canyon. I ignore it, focusing instead on our growing savings total and not on the fact that sometimes, I selfishly wish my parents had a huge secret savings account squirreled away for me. But I know that’s not the case and I remind myself that I’ll appreciate it more knowing Ivy and I did this on our own.

Because some dreams are worth the struggle. And some fighters are worth betting on… Even if we have to bet on ourselves first.

Chapter 1 - Tessa

The Mercer holiday party is exactly what you'd expect from two brothers who've built an empire—glitzy, glamorous, and overflowing with champagne. The penthouse sprawls across the entire top floor of their downtown building, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city skyline and a very coveted, direct view of Lake Michigan. 

“Hate to think what this view cost,” an older woman mutters next to me. 

“Yeah,” I reply politely with a nervous laugh, about to introduce myself since I am here to mingle, but she turns and walks away about as quickly as she appeared. I turn around to face the room. Large crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the space which is decked out in twinkling lights, garlands, and a giant Christmas tree that almost touches the vaulted ceiling. The ornaments alone probably cost more than my monthly rent. In fact, I’m almost positive I saw a Tiffany label hanging off one of them.

The room is beautiful, and I should be soaking in the scene, networking with the city's elite who are scattered throughout the room, but my mind's too busy racing with secret little thoughts about… him.

I scan the room, looking for my best friend Ivy who's off somewhere talking to Asher Mercer about our bakery. And while I should be thinking about business and making connections like I told Ivy I would be, my heart has other plans. Specifically, plans that include tracking down a certain Mercer brother—the other one. 

The one who used to make my teenage heart race every time I caught a glimpse of him from across the hallway. 

The older, bad boy who still haunts my dreams more than I'd care to admit.

As the captain of the cheer squad, student body president, and valedictorian of my graduating class, Zane Mercer and I didn’t come close to running in the same circles. Apart from the fact he was three years older than me and I was friends with his younger brother Asher, he was also not the kind of influence any young girl’s parents wanted their daughter around. 

A memory of the last time I remember seeing him in person flashes through my mind. It was the summer after my freshman year of college and I was back in my small town in the suburbs of Chicago. My mom had sent me a text, before I left my apartment in the city that I shared with Ivy, to let me know she saw the Mercer boys in town. She informed me in case I wanted to make a point to say hi to Asher while I was home. I did want to make a point to say hi to one of the Mercer brothers… but it wasn’t Asher. 

The sun burns the skin of my bare arms as I lift my arm to shield my eyes from its piercing rays. The summer is starting off strong with temperatures in the high eighties and humidity already nearing August levels. The outfit I took a painstaking amount of time choosing now suddenly feels too childish when I look down at the flowery one-piece romper that makes me look like an overgrown toddler. 

“Shit,” I mutter, tugging at the material in an attempt to pull it down a little lower, showing off what little cleavage I have. I straighten my back, squaring my shoulders as I fluff up my hair and close my car door with my hip.

I may or may not have purposely parked my car on the main street in town, right down the block from Mr. Mercer’s insurance office, when I noticed Zane’s telltale black Corvette he’s driven since high school. 

“You’re not an innocent sixteen-year-old anymore,” I whisper to my nearly nineteen-year-old self, convinced that having finally lost my V-card to a guy in college meant that I was a grown-ass woman. 

That is until a minute later when Zane himself walks out of his dad’s office with his arm around a woman with a body like an actual Coke bottle. For the first time, I understand what that reference meant. His hands move from her waist to her ass, both of them grabbing a handful of her and tugging her closer till she falls against him with a squeal. 

I freeze on the sidewalk, my face burning as he backs her against his car, sliding her up onto the hood while he bends her back and drags his tongue down her neck to her tits. It’s the middle of the day and Zane Mercer takes the opportunity to once again show the world he doesn’t give a fuck about the rules; he’s going to do what he wants. 

Trying to avoid being noticed, I spin around, tripping over my own feet and falling to one knee. “Ouch!” I wince, glancing down at the red and slightly bloody road rash. But I don’t have time to linger; I’m too embarrassed, standing up and limping away back to my car where I cringe silently, praying he was too engrossed in Miss Coke Bottle’s tits to witness that.

"You look like you're hunting for someone," Ivy says, surprising me, pulling me back to the present. I turn just as she appears beside me with two glasses of champagne. She hands me one, a knowing smirk playing on her crimson-painted lips, her black dress hugging her body and accentuating her décolletage.

I take a long sip of the bubbles, pushing the embarrassment that still lingers from that memory out of my mind and trying to appear casual even as my eyes continue their covert scan of the room. "I'm networking. Isn't that why we're here?"

"Right." She draws out the word, clearly not buying it. "And your networking has nothing to do with a certain Mercer brother whom you secretly swooned over in your diary?"

"I never had a diary," I protest, though we both know that's a lie. "And I have no idea what you're talking about. Besides, shouldn't you be more focused on your own Mercer situation? You should see the way that man has been eye fucking you from across the room."

Ivy blushes, glancing over at where Asher stands talking to a group of investors. Unlike his brother, Asher is all easy smiles and charm, his golden hair catching the light as he laughs at something someone said. "That's… different."

"Different how?" I challenge, but my words trail off as I finally spot him.

Zane Mercer stands by the windows, his back to me, looking just as broad-shouldered and intense as I remember. His dark suit is perfectly tailored, outlining a body that seems even more impressive than it was in high school. His profile is sharp against the glittering city lights as he talks to some suit-clad businessman, his arms crossed, radiating that familiar 'don't approach me' energy that used to both intimidate and intrigue me.

"Go talk to him." Ivy nudges me with her elbow. "You're not in high school anymore, Tess. Now you can use those tits and that ridiculous wit to charm him into bed."

"I didn’t say I was going to—" I start to protest, but Ivy's already walking away, throwing me a thumbs-up over her shoulder. I don’t know why I feel the need to lie about my intentions with Zane. Sure, there’s a touch of ego in there, wanting him to see me now that I’m grown-up, but I’m also not above having a hot holiday fling with him.

I take a deep breath, smoothing down my red cocktail dress. The one I spent an hour painstakingly choosing just for tonight. The back dips low, leaving my skin exposed, a stark contrast to the high neck. It makes me feel powerful, in control of my sexuality. However, the confidence I've built over the years suddenly feels paper-thin, but I push forward anyway. 

The closer I get to him, the quieter the surrounding noise becomes and the louder my stilettos sound, clicking against the marble floor. I take in a shaky breath, his back still facing me when I approach him.

"Well, if it isn't Zane Mercer," I say, injecting my voice with more confidence than I feel. "Still avoiding the crowd, I see."

He turns, and for a moment, something flickers in his dark eyes—recognition, maybe surprise. But then it's gone, replaced by that maddeningly neutral expression he's perfected. His jaw is still as sharp as I remember, his dark hair styled in that purposefully messy way that probably took an hour to achieve. A five o’clock shadow gives his otherwise clean-cut image an edge. 

"Tessa Marlow," he says, my name rolling off his tongue in that gravelly voice that still makes my stomach flip. "Didn't think you'd be here." 

He lifts his glass to his lips, taking a healthy sip. That’s when I notice the tattoos on his hands. My eyes must linger on them longer than I realize because his gaze drifts from mine to his own hand with a chuckle.

"No?” I say, pulling my gaze back to his eyes. “And miss a chance to crash a Mercer party?" I raise an eyebrow, channeling every ounce of sass I possess. I pause for a moment, hoping he might reference a memory I still have of seeing him at one of their high school parties. Technically, it wasn’t their party, it was Zane’s party—Asher just let a few of us sneak in. But he doesn’t bite so I continue. "Besides, your brother's helping with our bakery. Or didn't you hear?"

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Heard something about it. Asher's always picking up new…” He pauses, offering a smirk. “Projects."

The way he says 'projects' isn’t exactly complimentary and I don’t need to be a genius to see he probably couldn’t care less about said project. Ten years later and he still has the ability to get under my skin with just a few words. 

"Is that all you think this is? A project?"

"Isn't it?" He turns to face me fully now, his height forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. My mouth goes dry. I forgot what an imposing figure Zane Mercer is. His cologne wraps around me—a scent I’m not familiar with but instantly makes my head spin. "My brother's always had a soft spot for lost causes."

"Lost causes?" I step closer, irritation making me bold. The champagne probably helps too. "Our bakery is suc—is not a lost cause, Zane. And what a rude thing to say.” I lift my glass to my lips to let it go but my frustration gets the best of me. “We didn't come here begging for handouts. We came because your brother saw potential in what we've built. Not that you'd know anything about that, since you're too busy sulking in corners to actually pay attention to what's happening around you."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips, and damn, if it doesn't make him even more attractive. "You always did have fire in you, Marlow. Even back in school."

The comment throws me off-balance. "You… you noticed me in school?" Instantly, I wish I could take it back. My cheeks flush at my moment of vulnerability and suddenly, I’m that shy sixteen-year-old girl all over again. 

"Hard not to," he says cryptically, then adds, "you were always around, weren't you? Following Asher like a puppy."

My cheeks burn. "I wasn't following Asher, you jackass. I was—" I catch myself before I can admit I was actually trying to catch glimpses of him. That I used to time my walks to class just so I could pass him in the hallway on the off chance he actually showed up to school.

"You were what?" he prompts, and there's something almost playful in his tone now.

"Nothing," I snap, taking another sip of champagne to hide my flustered state. "God, you're still just as infuriating as you were back then, you know that? I thought with age you might have grown out of this."

"And you're still just as…" He pauses, his eyes trailing over me in a way that makes my skin tingle. "Transparent."

"Transparent?" I scoff, even as my heart races. "You don't know the first thing about me, Zane Mercer. You think just because I was the popular cheerleader in high school that you have me…” My words trail off as he takes a step closer to me.

He leans in slightly, and I catch another whiff of his cologne. "No? Then why are you over here talking to me instead of networking with all those potential investors?"

I meet his gaze defiantly. "Maybe I like a challenge."

"Or maybe," he says, his voice dropping lower, "you're still that same girl who used to watch me from behind her little pom-poms, thinking I didn't notice."

My breath catches in my throat. All these years, I thought I'd been so subtle. "I didn't—"

"You did." He cuts me off, a smugness in his tone that both infuriates and excites me. "And now here you are, all grown-up and still looking at me the same way."

"You're delusional," I manage to say, but my voice comes out breathier than I intended. My plan to have the upper hand on him tonight is quickly dwindling. 

He smirks, and the expression is so devastatingly attractive I want to either slap him or kiss him. Maybe both. "Am I? Prove it. Stay away from me for the rest of the night."

It's a challenge, and we both know it. The smart thing would be to walk away, to prove him wrong. To show him that I'm not that same lovesick teenager who used to pine after him. But something keeps me rooted to the spot, my heart pounding as I stare up at him.

"Fine," I finally say, squaring my shoulders, "challenge accepted. But just so you know, Zane, you're not as irresistible as you think you are."

His laugh is low and knowing, sending shivers down my spine. "We'll see about that, won't we, Marlow?"

I turn and walk away, my heels clicking against the marble floor, feeling his eyes on me the entire time. And despite my words, despite my determination to prove him wrong, I already know I'll be back. Because some things never change—and apparently, my weakness for Zane Mercer is one of them.

As I make my way back to where Ivy stands with Asher, I catch my reflection in one of the windows. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes bright, and I look exactly like what I am—a woman who's just been thoroughly rattled by the man she never quite got over.

God help me.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter 2 - Zane

I stalk away from her, my hands shoved in my pockets, trying to ignore the way my body is screaming at me to turn around. To go back. To push her up against that wall and show her exactly what I've been thinking about for the past decade.

But I can't.

She's Tessa Marlow. The girl who used to watch me in the halls with those big doe eyes. The one who made my cock hard in class just by existing. The one who was always too young, too pure, too everything for a guy like me. 

When I exit the penthouse ballroom and reach the elevators, I hit the button for my floor. The halls of our building are dark and quiet, just like they are when I come in early or on the weekends. That’s how I like it. Quiet. Uncomplicated. Easy.

"Fuck," I mutter, yanking open the door to my private office and letting it slam behind me. I loosen my tie and pour myself three fingers of scotch, downing half of it in one swallow.

The burn does nothing to erase the image of her in that red dress. The way it hugged every curve, showing off the woman she's become. She's not that teenage girl anymore—she's all grown-up and even more tempting than she was back then.

“Shit,” I groan, dropping down into my leather chair and closing my eyes, letting my mind wander back to the days when she haunted my every thought.

The numbers blur together as I lean against my Corvette, cigarette dangling from my lips. Another failing business, another stack of reports showing exactly why. Dad might think I'm playing with fire giving financial advice at this age, but I can read a balance sheet better than half of the accountants out there. And no amount of him preaching at me to focus on school so I can graduate and work at his insurance firm is going to stop me.

"Just sell the damn thing," I mutter into my phone, watching the snow drift down. "The longer you hold on to it, the more money you'll lose."

The business owner on the other end starts arguing, but I've already stopped listening. Because there she is—Tessa fucking Marlow, pressed against the library window, pretending to study while she watches me.

She thinks I don't notice. They all think that—that I'm too wrapped up in my own bullshit to see the whispers, the stares. But I notice everything. Especially her.

"Listen," I cut the guy off. "My lunch break's over. Call me when you're ready to take my advice."

I hang up, taking a long drag of my cigarette. Through the window, I can see her friend trying to get her attention. Probably talking about the winter formal or some other bullshit I couldn't care less about.

But Tessa's still watching me.

She shouldn't interest me. She's everything I hate about this place—the perfect cheerleader with her perfect life, floating through high school on popularity and pep rallies. The kind of girl who would never look twice at the black sheep—the fuckup.

Except she does look. All the fucking time.

I've caught her staring in the hallways, in the cafeteria, at my brother's stupid parties. Always with those big blue eyes that seem to see right through my carefully constructed walls.

"Fuck this," I mutter, crushing my cigarette under my boot. I need to get out of here, away from the temptation to look back at her.

The bell rings as I'm heading to the parking lot. I round the corner and suddenly she's there, crashing into my chest like some kind of cosmic joke.

"Shit, sorry," I say, my hands moving to steady her before she falls. She's so delicate. It’s no wonder she’s the one getting tossed around during her cheerleader performances.

"It's okay," she squeaks, and something in my chest tightens at the sound. "My fault."

I look down at her, and for a moment, I let myself really see her. Not just the cheerleader uniform or the perfect blond ponytail, but her. The intelligence behind those eyes. The slight tremble in her lower lip. The way her breath catches when I touch her.

It would be so easy to keep holding her. To back her up against the lockers and find out if she tastes as sweet as she looks.

Danger flashes in my mind.

"You're Asher's friend, right?" I force myself to let go, step back. "The cheerleader?"

"Tessa," she says, and fuck if her breathless voice doesn't do things to me. "We've actually met before. At your house, when—"

"Right." I cut her off before she can remind me of that night—her in those tiny shorts, laughing at something my brother said while I watched from the shadows, wanting what I couldn't have. "Tell my brother I need those car keys back by six."

I walk away before I can do something stupid, like ask why she watches me. Like tell her I watch her too. Instead of skipping, I decide to stay. The thought that maybe I’ll see her again lingering in the back of my mind.

In my next class, I can't focus on anything except the lingering warmth of her body against mine. The way she fit perfectly in my hands. The soft catch in her breath when she said my name.

This is exactly why I keep my distance. Girls like Tessa Marlow are nothing but trouble. They make you want things you can't have, dream about futures that don't exist for guys like me.

My phone buzzes—another failing business owner wanting advice. Good. Numbers I can handle. Balance sheets don't make promises they can't keep. Profit margins don't look at you with eyes full of possibilities.

But as I stare at the spreadsheet, all I can think about is the way she whispered my name. How her whole body seemed to lean into my touch, like she wanted more.

Like maybe she sees past the bad boy exterior to something worth wanting.

"You're fucked," I mutter to myself, shoving my phone away. Because she's barely sixteen and innocent and everything I'm not.

Because wanting her is dangerous and for the first time in my life, I'm not sure I'm strong enough to keep my distance.

After class, I light another cigarette, trying to burn away the memory of her body against mine. But it's no use. Tessa Marlow has gotten under my skin, and I'm starting to think she's been there a lot longer than I want to admit.

God help us both.

The memory fades as I stare out my office window, the Chicago skyline a stark contrast to those high school parking lot days. Ten years, and she still has the same effect on me. Still makes me want things I have no business wanting—things I don’t deserve. Not after a decade of carelessly breaking hearts that were just casualties of my own internal war.

The door opens behind me. "You're brooding again."

"I don't brood." I don't turn around. Asher knows me too well—he'll see right through my bullshit and right now, I’m really not in the mood.

"Right." He drops into one of my leather chairs. "Just like you weren't just thinking about Tessa Marlow."

Now I do turn, fixing him with a glare. "Don't start."

"Come on, Zane. I saw the way you looked at her tonight. The same way you've always looked at her."

"I don't look at her any way." I loosen my already loose tie, needing more air. "She's an annoyance and now a complication that you invited into my life."

"She's more than that and you know it." He leans forward, suddenly serious. "You've wanted her since high school."

"I didn’t want her in hi—” I start to protest but he rolls his eyes. 

“Here we go.”

“Fine, but still—ancient history." 

"Is it?" He raises an eyebrow. "Because the tension between you two out there…” He shakes his head as he lets out a whistle. “Could sense it from across the room.”

I pour us each a scotch, buying time. "What do you want, Ash?"

He accepts the glass, but his expression stays serious. "I want my brother to be happy for once in his fucking life. To stop punishing himself for things that happened a decade ago."

"I'm fine."

"You're alone." He takes a sip. "And don't give me that bullshit about preferring it that way. We both know that's not true."

I sink into my chair, suddenly exhausted. "What about you and her friend?” I give him a knowing look. “Ivy Calloway.”

His face softens at her name, and I know I've successfully diverted his attention. "That obvious, huh?"

"Only to someone who knows you." I study him over my glass. “You’re clearly still obsessed."

"Yeah." He runs a hand through his hair—a nervous tell we both inherited from our father. "There's just something about her, you know? She's brilliant and driven, but there's this softness too. This way she has of making everyone around her feel… seen."

"Sounds like true love.” My sarcastic tone is obvious, my distrust of her not so much.

"Maybe." He grins. "I'm helping with their bakery, did you know that? The business plan is solid. They've really thought it through."

I think of Tessa's fierce defense of their venture earlier. "Yeah, I got that impression. Although…" I take a sip of my drink. “It would have been nice if you clued me in that you made the decision. I hadn’t yet looked at the plans.”

"You should see Ivy when she talks about it. Her whole face lights up." He shakes his head, like he just said some superhuman thing. "I've never met anyone like her."

"Just be careful," I warn. "Mixing business and pleasure—"

"Is exactly what you should be doing with Tessa."

I set my glass down harder than necessary. "We're not talking about me."

"Aren't we?" He leans back, studying me. "You pushed her away back then because she was too young. What's your excuse now?"

"She deserves better than me." The words slip out before I can stop them. 

"That's not your decision to make." He stands, draining his glass. "She's not that teenage girl anymore, Zane. And you're not the same angry kid you were back then."

"Some things don't change.”

"But people do." 

“I love you, little bro, but you need to stop being so damn naive. You trust people too much and we both know this world is fucking ruthless.”

He shakes his head with a defeated sigh, like he always does whenever the conversation turns this direction. He heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "You know what I think? I think you're not afraid she deserves better. I think you're afraid she'll actually want you—the real you. And then you'll have to stop hiding behind those walls you've built."

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with thoughts I've spent years trying to bury. Memories of blond hair and bright smiles. Of watching her from a distance, wanting what I couldn't have.

But Asher's right—she's not that girl anymore. She's a woman now, successful and confident and sexy as hell. A woman who stood up to me tonight, who pushed back against my walls like they were made of paper. A woman who looks at me like she sees something worth wanting that has nothing to do with money and power.

I reach for the scotch again but stop myself. Liquid courage isn't what I need right now. What I need is to figure out how to keep my distance when everything in me is screaming to go find her.

Because if I'm honest with myself—really honest—Asher’s right. I'm not worried she deserves better than me. I’m terrified she'll realize I'm exactly what she's been looking for all along.

And then what the fuck am I supposed to do with these walls I've built?

***

I have no idea how long I’ve been wallowing on my couch once I manage to make it home from the party, but my phone buzzes in my pocket—bringing me back to reality. I’m tempted to ignore it. It’s probably Asher, wanting to dissect the party, to talk about investors and deals. But when I pull it out, there's a notification from an unknown number.

*Unknown: Just wanted to make sure you got home okay. The snow's getting pretty bad out there. - T

“T,” I say aloud. “Tessa.”

I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the screen. How the hell did she get my number? Asher, probably. He's always sticking his nose where it doesn't belong.

I should ignore it. That would be the smart thing to do—maintain the distance, keep the walls up. But something makes me type out a response.

*Me: I'm fine. How did you get this number?

Her reply comes almost immediately, I barely have time to save her as a new contact. 

*Tessa: Your brother might have slipped it to me. Don't be mad at him—I can be very persuasive when I want to be.

I can almost hear her voice, that teasing lilt she gets when she's being playful. I imagine her dragging her teeth across those full, pouty lips. Despite the mood that darkened my mind only a minute ago, I feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. I glance at the clock.

*Me: I'm sure you can be. But that doesn't mean you should be texting me at midnight.

I’m tempted, so tempted to say something a lot more suggestive, but I pass.

Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Finally, her reply appears.

*Tessa: You're right. I'll leave you alone. But just so you know, Ivy and I will be at the bakery we’re trying to buy at seven a.m. tomorrow if you're interested in the best cinnamon rolls in the city. Our realtor is letting us test it out. No pressure though.

I run a hand over my face, feeling that familiar tug of war inside me. Part of me wants to shut this down now, before it goes any further. But another part—a part I've been ignoring for too long—wants to see where this might lead.

*Me: I'll think about it.

It's not much, but it's more than I would have given anyone else. And judging by her response—a simple smiley face—she knows it too.

I toss my phone onto the coffee table, leaning back against the couch with a sigh. The snow is falling harder now, blanketing the city in white, making everything look softer, more forgiving. Maybe she's right. Maybe I don't have to keep everyone at a distance.

The thought settles in the back of my mind, stubborn and insistent. For the first time in years, I feel like there might be something worth changing for. And that terrifies me more than anything.

Because letting people in means being vulnerable. It means risking disappointment, heartbreak, loss. All the things I've spent the last decade building walls against. But watching Tessa tonight, seeing the way she moves through life with such openness, such hope… it makes me wonder if maybe I've been doing it wrong all this time.

Maybe the real risk isn't in letting people in. Maybe it's in keeping them out.

I get up, walking back to the window. The city stretches out below me, a maze of lights and shadows, and somewhere out there is a bakery that opens at seven a.m. Somewhere out there is a woman who looks at me and sees something worth saving.

My phone buzzes again, but I don't check it.

Instead, I pour one last drink, raising it to my reflection in the window. "Here's to taking chances," I murmur, and for once, the silence in my apartment doesn't feel so hollow.

Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's just the lingering effect of seeing her again after all these years, but as I head to bed, I feel something I haven't felt in a long time: hope.

And even though part of me is still screaming that this is a mistake, that I should stick to what I know—numbers, deals, safe distances—I can't help but think about tomorrow morning. About cinnamon rolls and coffee and the possibility of something more.