“I’m not going to stroke your ego, Mr. Bridges. I’m here to do a job. Nothing more,” she snaps. “Is that going to be a problem for you?”
“Nah, I’m good.” Except the ease of my tone seems to grate on her, and I sense the other shoe about to drop when she turns to me, gaze unwavering.
“Since you’re so eager to stroll down Memory Lane, last I recall, Lincoln Bridges was a man fueled by integrity and reclaiming his family’s Ellswood roots, right?” Her full, warm pink lips curve up with satisfaction. “I thought you were fighting to ensure the Livingstons don’t rewrite history. Should we talk about whyyou’reworking for Cornelia, then?”
We stare at each other, at an impasse.
The air crackles with tension.
“No, it’s fine,” I say, straightening to focus on her checklist. “It’s just business. Like you said,we’re here to do a job, so let’s.”
And that’s what we do for the next forty-five minutes. She outlines the restoration and wedding event timelines leading up to the September twentieth ceremony and reception. Together, we map out a rough schedule for her to bring around the couple and vendors to the space.
“I’ve created a visual render of the building,” she says, tapping yet another app. But this time, it isn’t a checklist or questionnaire. It’s a bold red icon withMod3Dwritten in white block letters. After a few seconds, a 3D model of Madison Manor appears on the screen, complete with floor plans and layouts.
“This is based off a blueprint I found online,” she continues, her eyes flicking between the model and her notes, “but I’ll need the updated specifications to include any planned structural changes, if there are any. I sent you a collaborator invite earlier, so accept that when you get a chance.”
As if she didn’t already impress the hell out of me, she keeps going, offhandedly mentioning color schemes, expected guest count, and preferred rehearsal dates. We’ll mostly correspond by email, she says, in person only when absolutely necessary.
I listen quietly as she asks to be CC’d on any restoration progress updates, but I’m not really hearing her anymore. I’m looking at her, at all the small, seemingly insignificant changes—her subtle shifts in posture, the way her fingers tap the screen, the way she avoids my gaze, as if she’s hiding something. And I can’t help but wonder about all this talking, the string of decisions masking her tiny, almost imperceptible sighs, they’re just…what? Pieces of the mask? Me spotting the differences?
I don’t know what I was expecting, though.
We haven’t been close for years. We were never going to be best friends. There was never a clear path for what we became.
The room feels smaller, the air heavier. Everything’s awkward, charged, uncertain, and none of it should matter, but it does in ways I can’t explain.
She’s just someone I used to know.
And maybe that’s all she’ll ever be. As much as I’m curious about the person she’s become, if today is any indication, I don’t want to find out.
Chapter Five
Night Terror
Ebony
I joltawake with myheart racing, Linc’s voice from the dream still a burning whisper in my ear.“Lookat me, Ebony.”
Chapter Six
Flip Side
Lincoln
“Firstof all, Ebony isnot thinking about your old, sorry,tiredass.” Josiah hurls the basketball at me so fast, it knocks the wind out of me, causing me to stumble out of bounds.
For a beat, I stare at him. He mean-mugs me, breathing all hard.
Since he arrived at the court—late—with nothing more than “I got next” to say to us, Dom and I figured he was on one. But Josiah is one of those people you can’t force to talk. He’s got to come around when he’s good and ready.
I guess that time is now. I think.
“You all right, bro?” I ask.
“Are you?” he snaps back, stretching his arms the full length of his massive wingspan. His thick, dark eyebrows braid together. “Thought you were supposed to be prime time…out here playing like this is a warm-up, as if we don’t know what’s up.”
On the bench, Dom winces, covering his mouth with his hand, like he’s secondhand embarrassed for me.
