Could it work? If I took the Steel job, if we weren't professionally connected anymore, could we try again? Start fresh, without the complications and conflicts that kept us from ever trying to be a couple?
Or would it be the same problems in a different package? The press would still be interested in us. People would still talk. My reputation would still be at risk.
But maybe that risk would be worth it. Maybe he would be worth it.
I push myself harder, as if I could outrun my own thoughts. But they keep pace effortlessly.
What would people think? Dad would be furious at first, but would he eventually understand? Would my colleagues respect me if they knew I'd crossed that line?
Could I trust Nate to be the man I glimpsed today—open, honest, working on himself? Or would the old patterns reassert themselves when things got difficult?
The questions chase me all the way home, where I stand under a hot shower, trying to calm my mind.
Later, wrapped in my bathrobe, hair still damp from the shower, I sit on my bed with my phone in hand. I'm staring at the Steel's offer email, reading it for the tenth time, when a text comes through.
Nate's name appears on my screen, and my body tenses.
"One more chance. You set the rules."
Oh my god. How do I respond? Yes? No? Maybe? I want to believe in second chances, in growth, in the possibility that maybe we actually belong together.
But I'm also afraid. Afraid of getting hurt. Afraid of hurting him. Afraid of risking everything for something that might not last.
I set the phone down without responding, but I can't stop the small smile that curves my lips, or the warmth that spreads through me.
One more chance.
Maybe. Just maybe.
I pick up the phone again and text Nate back: “Tempting… Can you actually follow the rules though?”
Chapter 20
Elena
I’m standing outside Dad's front door, my finger an inch from the doorbell. The glass container of dessert—homemade tiramisu, his favorite—is starting to get heavy in my hands. The weight of what I need to tell him makes my stomach clench like I've swallowed rocks. I take a deep breath, press the bell, and plaster on a smile.
The door swings open, and Dad fills the frame, dressed in jeans and a light blue polo shirt.
"You're right on time," he says, stepping back to let me in. "And is that what I think it is?" He points at the container.
"Tiramisu." I hold up the container. "I had a little extra time, so I thought I'd make your favorite."
His eyebrows lift. "You buttering me up for something?"
He's joking, but the truth of his words hits a nerve. I follow him into the kitchen, where a pot of pasta sauce bubbles on the stove. The house smells like garlic and tomatoes and basil.
"Need help?" I ask, setting the dessert on the counter.
"You can toss the salad." He gestures to a wooden bowl filled with greens. "I've got the rest under control."
We work in comfortable silence. This is our rhythm—most comfortable when focused on a task. We've always communicated better side by side than face to face.
"How was your time off?" he asks, stirring the sauce. "You look like you’re feeling better. More rested."
"It was good. Reese and I went up to her family cabin in Lake Geneva for a couple days."
"That's nice." He nods, tasting the sauce with a small spoon. "You two have been friends for forever. It’s good to have people in your life that have gone through so much with you."
