Zane.
Since Jas got back from the makeover my mother subjected her to yesterday, I haven’t stopped looking at her, and I hated that.
It wasn’t just the facial care, or the way her hair framed her face now, or even the damn way she smelled like expensive flowers and something warmer underneath. It was her. The way she moved through the space like she belonged here. Like she belonged to me.
And that was the problem.
Because I didn’t do belonging. I didn’t do soft glances across the room or this twist in my chest every time she laughed at something that wasn’t even funny. I didn’t get distracted mid-conference call thinking about how she looked when she came down the stairs yesterday.
I didn’t do this.
But here I was doing it, thinking about her.
And worse? I found myself wanting to.
