Now

"Unbelievable," Chloe Carter muttered, her voice a wisp against the clamor of Lester Harbor's crowded streets.

She balanced the heavy box on her hip, her steps tapping out a staccato rhythm on the pavement. The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows of hurried strangers across the street while her tailored gray dress whispered with each stride, hugging her curves.

Long, jet-black hair—a nod to her Chinese heritage—cascaded over her shoulders, the strands slightly mussed from a day that had been more disaster than delight. Her dark eyes, stormy and sharp, flicked toward a tall, athletic man in the distance. Handsome, arrogant, and familiar.

No, it couldn't be.

Chloe's pulse kicked to full speed, but she kept walking. She shook her head, dispelling the thought of him. It had been years since that particular brand of trouble had torpedoed her life. A charming rogue who promised her the world and delivered nothing but heartbreak. It was just a trick of the light. The man disappearing into the crowd couldn't be him.

Surely, the universe wasn't cruel enough to throw the past back into her orbit. Not when she was scraping the bottom of her professional barrel and carrying its weight in a box full of staplers and binders.

Still, the man in the distance moved with the same easy confidence, his blond hair catching the light as if he were a model for GQ Magazine.

Don't be him. Don't you dare be him.

Distracted, she let the box slip out of her grasp, tilting dangerously.

"Oh, come on," she hissed, juggling the weight. The bustling street paid her no mind as if the city itself conspired to test her patience.

Each step hammered a reminder into her feet, the flimsy cushion of her ballet flats offering little reprieve. The box—an unwelcome souvenir of her plummet from corporate grace—grew heavier with each step. Today, it seemed, the universe was intent on breaking her spirit.

"Oof!" The sound escaped her lips as she collided with something—or rather, someone—solid as a brick wall. The ground rushed up to meet her, hard and unforgiving.

A stapler clattered to the ground, followed by an avalanche of sticky notes and highlighters. Her belongings lay scattered across the sidewalk, a messy metaphor for her current life.

"Watch where you're going," she snapped.

She glanced up, and her heart gave an involuntary jolt—not just from the fall but from the pair of mischievous green eyes that haunted her dreams more than she'd ever admit.

She froze.

Oh, hell.

The man crouching beside her, picking up a stray binder, was none other than him. The devil in a designer suit—Lester Harbor's golden-haired playboy billionaire, heir to the Scott-Quinn empire.

***

Damian Scott, a vision of effortless power in his tailored suit—sans tie—strode out of the Lester Harbor Riverside building, his gaze locked on the sleek promise of his black Lamborghini waiting at the curb.

He was already late for dinner at the Riviera, the city's most exclusive restaurant. But something in the air stopped him—a delicate scent, floral with a twist of mandarin, that stirred memories he'd buried deep.

Then, chaos erupted.

Chloe's world spilled at his feet, office supplies scattering across the sidewalk in a messy tangle of her past and present. Damian knelt beside her, their hands brushing as they both reached for a runaway stapler.

"Here, let me help," he offered, his baritone voice threaded with concern. His bright eyes caught hers—a flash of recognition and something else, something dangerously close to nostalgia.

"I've got it," Chloe said, heat rising to her cheeks as she scrambled to gather her life off the pavement.

Her heart skipped a beat as memories crashed over her—late nights in dorm rooms, whispered secrets, the intoxicating pull of first love, and how he shattered her like fragile glass.

The old wounds he left behind tore open all at once. He looked infuriatingly good, of course. His crisp suit clung to his broad shoulders in all the ways that made women forget their better judgment. And his face, maddeningly handsome, hadn't aged a day.

Did he even remember who she was?

She stiffened. "Damian. You don't recognize me, do you?"

His head jerked up, surprise flickering across his gorgeous features. Same sharp jaw. Same cocky, lopsided smile. Same vivid green eyes that had once made her feel like she was the only woman in the world.

"Chloe? I... wow, it's you." His smile spread, the kind that made her knees weak all those years ago. He brushed a strand of his hair back, the gesture achingly familiar. The years melted away momentarily, leaving only the raw truth of what they once were.

He picked up a sticky note and passed it to her. "It's been—"

"Seven years," she cut in, snatching the note from his hand. "And not nearly long enough."

The corner of his mouth twitched, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Still feisty, I see."

"And you're still full of yourself," Chloe replied, shoving the rest of her belongings into the box more forcefully than necessary. She didn't need this. Not today. Not ever.

"Let me help you with that," Damian offered, his hand brushing hers as they both reached for a pen.

"It's all good," she said, pulling back as if his touch had burned her.

Of course, Damian didn't listen. He never did. He kept picking up stray items, his movements annoyingly graceful. His fingers brushed hers, sending a jolt of electricity through her.

"Chloe," he said after a moment. "How've you been?"

"Fantastic. Living the dream," Chloe muttered, but the flutter in her chest betrayed her.

Damn him and that magnetic pull—his fresh aftershave reminding her of the ocean breeze and how his megawatt smile still had the power to unravel her.

Damian smiled as he stood, stretching out his palm. "Here, take my hand."

Chloe hesitated, her pride fighting against the irresistible pull of his presence. Against her better judgment, she took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. The warmth of his grip sent a spark racing up her arm.

Damn him.

Chloe hesitated, her pride and her pain wrestling for control. But they were adults, weren't they? She forced a smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Thank you."

"It's good to see you. You look great. And that's quite the collection you've got there," he teased, holding up a handful of sticky notes. "Starting your own stationery shop?"

Sensing the tenderness in his voice, Chloe let her shoulders drop a little and half-smiled. "Oh, you know, just the essentials for surviving unemployment. Lots of binders and sticky notes."

Damian's brows knitted together. "Wait, you lost your job?"

"Yep. Today's special: redundancy with a side of existential crisis," she quipped, masking the sting with humor.

"I'm sorry, Chloe. That's rough." His hand lingered over hers a beat longer than necessary, a silent acknowledgment of the connection they once shared.

Chloe met his gaze, her vulnerability hidden behind a thin layer of bravado. "The company got acquired by a bigger fish. Downsizing was inevitable. What's a girl to do but pick up her binders and keep going?"

Damian tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle. "Where did you park?"

"I didn't drive. Parking here's a nightmare, so I got a ride from a friend."

"Is she picking you up soon?"

"Yes, he should be here any minute now."

"He?"

"Yes. It's a him."

***

Damian pressed his lips, shoving his hands in his pockets. An awkward silence hung between them. He wanted to say something—anything—to bridge the years that had stretched between them.

May I buy you a cup of coffee sometime? Catch up on life after college?

The words rushed from his heart with a fierce urgency. Yet, they remained imprisoned behind his lips, unspoken and echoing in the chasm of missed opportunities.

As they walked toward the car park, each glance between them stitched the scattered years back together, weaving a fragile tapestry of old affections. But then, a sharp beep cut through the quiet, unexpected and jarring. Damian frowned, pulling his phone from his pocket, his expression darkening as he read the screen.

"Give me a moment. I need to take this," Damian said, his voice heavy with stories yet to be shared.

Chloe's heart sank as Damian stepped away, his low, urgent murmurs slipping beyond her reach.

Who could be calling him now? Was this interruption destined to sever the fragile ties of their rekindled connection?

A red Chevrolet roared into the car park, its engine slicing through the silence. Chase Miller leaned out of the window with his tousled dark hair and easy smile, calling her name. His timing couldn't be more perfect—or not.

"Thank God you're here," Chloe sighed, blowing a strand of hair from her face.

"Jump in. I can't linger, and the traffic's a nightmare," Chase urged. Chloe hesitated, her eyes flicking back to Damian, still tangled in his heated exchange.

Should she interrupt and offer her number? But Damian's harsh tone stopped her. "No, I did not agree to that. Listen, Gemma..." he snapped into the phone.

Gemma? Girlfriend? Colleague? Someone more?

The questions swirled in her mind, but she chose not to intrude. With a final glance at Damian, Chloe made her decision. She dashed to the car and slid in, Chase driving off before she could second-guess herself.

Damian ended his call and turned back, only to catch the fading taillights of the Chevrolet—a silent farewell. Through the rear window, he saw Chloe, their eyes meeting for a brief, loaded moment.

"She couldn't wait a moment?" he murmured, disappointment casting a deep shadow across his features.

His groin hardened with a raw, unrelenting urgency surging like an electric wave at the thought of Chloe. How could he forget the nights when she was his—her bare skin warm and soft against him, the intoxicating scent of jasmine and desire enveloping them both? The way his hands traced every curve of her body, memorizing the feel of her, and how she shivered with anticipation when he found the slick heat between her thighs?

He had loved her once. He still did. He needed her. Craved her. Hungered for her in a way that both terrified and thrilled him.

What now? How could he find her again without a way to reach out?

As he stood there, his eyes caught on a small rectangle lying on the pavement—Chloe's business card. It was a beacon in the gathering dusk, its edge torn as if mirroring the fragile, unfinished nature of their encounter. But despite its imperfections, it held her number, her name.

A way back to what they might still have.

Her phone number.

***

A/N: what do you think will happen next? What would you like to happen?