Chapter 5: Collisions in the Heat

Resignation, breakup, packing, going home. I donated my work clothes to Goodwill, trashed the lingerie he bought me, deleted our texts—though I’d screenshotted them, hidden in a folder I’d never open again.

I threw myself into work and my mother’s blind dates—nice, stable men from her church, Pentagon guys or high school teachers. Men who wanted wives, not mistresses.

I thought D.C. was big enough to disappear in. But two years later, I ran into Nathan again.

It was summer—sweltering, the kind of heat that made my shirt stick to my back. A kid screamed for a balloon. Somewhere, someone was selling bottled water for five bucks. I scarfed down two Cherry Garcia cones from Ben & Jerry’s, letting the chocolate chunks melt slow.

I turned and there he was, Nathan Brooks, surrounded by his ever-growing entourage—bodyguards, assistants, the works. He was still the center of gravity in every room, moving through the Smithsonian courtyard like royalty.

My stomach dropped. Old muscle memory—fight, flight, or freeze. I tried to melt into the crowd, just another tourist in a gift shop tee.

But he found me anyway, his radar never failing. His bodyguards blocked the eager, his staff shooed away the ambitious. Even the kids quieted down.

He stepped up, his Italian leather shoes in my line of sight. He plucked the half-melted ice cream from my hand, his fingers brushing mine. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

He grinned, teasing: "What happened to the whole ‘ice cream gives me cramps’ thing? Guess that rule’s out the window now."

My chest twisted up—guilt, longing, everything I’d spent months trying to kill.