Page 230 of Terms of Exposure
No tremors.
No white-knuckled grip.
My fingers drifted to my throat, brushing the pendant lying against my skin as the city streaked by, neon signs blurring into ribbons.
Damien.
My Damien.
I was done being afraid to want him.
Marina's appeared through the window, warm light spilling onto the sidewalk.
"We're here, Ms. Sinclair," Harold announced, as he pulled to a stop.
"Thank you, Harold."
He was already out of the car, rounding it to open my door. I stepped onto the pavement, the night air cool on my bare shoulders, and looked up at the restaurant's familiar facade.
The same brick.
The same glowing sign.
"Have a wonderful evening," Harold said, a knowing warmth in his voice.
I smoothed my dress, lifted my chin, and walked toward the door.
No shaky hands.
No anxious thoughts.
Only joy.
A collar around my throat.
And the absolute certainty the man waiting inside would look at me like I was the only woman in the world.
Chapter fifty
Emma
The smell hit first—garlic, basil, wine, bread. The same intoxicating blend that had greeted me all those months back.
Then the jazz. Low and warm, curling through the air like smoke.
Candlelight flickered in wall sconces, casting dancing shadows across rough brick. Shelves lined with old bottles. The intimate hum of conversation from couples tucked into corners. All of it exactly as I remembered.
A hostess approached, and time seemed to stall.
Her.
The woman from that first night. She looked exactly as I remembered—dark hair pinned back, simple black dress, composure that came from years of greeting guests.
"Good evening." Her smile was warm. "Do you have a reservation?"
"Yes. Holt. Party of two."
"Right this way."
