“Hannah!” my mother shouted from the kitchen, not bothering to look up from the flower arrangements she was criticizing. “Get the door! You’re not doing anything useful anyway!”

I walked down the stairs slowly, deliberately. My hand touched the cold metal of the doorknob. I didn’t rush. I turned it, pulled the heavy oak door open, and let the afternoon light flood the entryway.

There he stood.

Nathaniel was six-foot-two of controlled power. He was wearing a tailored charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin, the kind of suit that whispered money rather than shouted it. His jawline was sharp enough to slice egos in half, and his dark hair was perfectly styled.

His brown eyes scanned me instantly. He noted the torn jeans, the faded t-shirt, the raw tension locked in my jaw. His gaze darkened, a storm cloud passing over a clear sky, before drifting past me into the house.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice quiet enough that only I could hear, but deep enough to vibrate in my chest.

I nodded once, swallowing the lump in my throat. “You came?” I whispered.

He leaned forward, ignoring the audience I knew was gathering behind me, and kissed my cheek. “Of course I came.”

Then, he stepped inside.