The pause between them finally snapped when the assistant manager leaned in and whispered, "He keeps asking for you. Says he'll pay any amount. Won't back down."
Typical Curtis.
Allie nodded, though her hands shook. Her chest felt tight, eyes burning with tears she barely kept from spilling. She looked at him and the ache sharpened: longing layered over old hurt, over a thousand unasked questions.
How did he even find me? We don't share a single thread anymore. I cut them all.
Across from her, Curtis seemed both rooted and restless. Up close, he registered details he'd forgotten how to breathe around: the delicate line of her jaw, the way her lashes fanned when she blinked, how small her face actually was. He stepped forward—an instinct to hold her—but checked himself and retreated a pace, as if he were the one who might break.
He tried a smile, soft and helpless, his eyes doing the work his hands didn't.
"Hi." It sounded light, almost casual—except relief cracked through the word.
"Hi," she managed, the syllable polished into professionalism. She turned to the assistant manager and bartender. "Thank you. I've got it from here." A practiced smile. "He's…an old friend."
They drifted away, curiosity trailing them like a scent.
Allie pivoted back, every inch the manager in a black body-con midi dress, clipboard hugged to her ribs. "Mr. Harper," she said, careful, "I'm working. It's a busy night. We can talk another time."
He heard the boundary and, underneath it, the tremor. This might be his only window. He couldn't risk another year of unanswered what-ifs.
"I understand." He pulled out a stool and sat. "I'll wait. I won't talk. I won't cause a scene." He tapped the bar lightly. "I'll be right here."
She bit the inside of her cheek. Why won't he move? I'm not going anywhere. Is he alone? Where's…his girl?
"Fine," she said, exhaling. She pointed toward a shadowed corner—a two-top tucked beneath a brass sconce, away from the main floor. "Over there. Order anything."
"Fine by me."
She dipped a brief bow, the kind she gave dignitaries and billionaires, and swept back into the current of the club.
He watched her work like a man starved. She was everywhere at once—laughing with a VIP host, straightening a floral arrangement, conferring with security, tapping a note into her phone. She moved like music, like she carried her own spotlight. The same brightness he'd fallen for, only steadier now. He felt his chest loosen just seeing her inhabit her element.
Between tasks, Allie's gaze kept flicking to that dark corner. Old muscle memory: find him, clock him, make sure he's okay. He was flagging—jet-lag heavy, eyes glassy, bobbing his head to keep from nodding off. Around him, curiosity bloomed. A hostess lingered near the edge of his table. Two guests at the bar pointed, whispering.
The sight yanked something raw inside her. It was ridiculous and selfish and entirely out of line—but the thought was there anyway: don't look at him.
Enough.
She found her assistant manager near the service station. "Rina, I'm stepping out. I've done the rounds—kitchen, floor, VIP, all good. If anything shifts, call me."
Rina cut a glance toward the corner, where Curtis sat folding in on himself like a sleepy boy. She lifted a brow, teasing. "Is it because of your…friend?"
Allie ignored the heat crawling up her neck. "It's because he clearly hasn't slept and I don't want him collapsing in my club."
She grabbed her purse and coat, then crossed the room. "Come on," she said quietly, and took his hand.
They slipped through the lobby, Allie offering quick goodnights to staff as they passed. Outside, spring air cooled the heat that clung to their skin, cherry petals skimming the sidewalk like confetti from a party neither of them had attended.
"You look exhausted," she said, flagging for a taxi. "Are you with anyone? Where are you staying? I'll call a cab to take you—"
He caught her wrist, gentle but sure, turning her to face him. His voice was hoarse with travel and something like hope. "I just got here. I don't have anywhere to go. I didn't book a hotel. I went straight to you."
She stared. Crisp, controlled, invincible Curtis Harper—rumpled shirt, tired eyes, the seams of his order loosened. A sick twist of guilt lifted in her throat. Did I do this? Did I tilt him off his axis for good?
He read the worry on her face and almost smiled. She still cares. "Hey," he said softly, hands up like he was calming a skittish bird. "Don't freak out. I literally came from the airport. That's why I look like this. And I'm alone."
"I'm not…freaking out," she lied, already walking. "How did you even find me?"
He matched her stride. "So your plan was to cut me out completely?"
She stopped so fast he nearly collided with her. "Excuse me? And why are you following me?"
A cool mist turned, sudden and certain, into rain. Without thinking, she grabbed his hand again and ran. They pounded down the slick pavement beneath a canopy of pale pink trees, through the lobby's gold-lit hush, into the elevator where applause of rain faded to a steady drum on the roof. Neither of them let go.
She unlocked her door with wet hands, ushered him inside, and closed the world out.
By the time she turned, he was already there—close enough to see rain beaded on his lashes, to feel the warm, uneven rush of his breath. He pulled her in like gravity, and she met him halfway, their mouths finding each other with a need that was relief and apology and a year of unslept nights.
It was tender—then not. Sweet—then fierce. Everything they'd swallowed and buried surged up, and for one impossible, dangerous minute, she let herself drown.
She tore back first, palms flat on his chest. "Curtis, we can't," she whispered, tears spilling over. "This isn't right."
He flinched. "Why isn't it?"
"How did you find me?" Her voice shook. "And is this about the money?"
"The money—?" He blinked, startled. "I found you because of a magazine. Luck. I've been looking for you since you left. And no, it's not about the money." His voice grew rough. "If the reason you needed it was to come here and build this life, then good. I wish I'd been there from the start to cheer you on."
"That's not why." She swallowed hard. "I used it for my mom's surgery." The confession ripped out of her. "She was sick, and I'd run out of options. I wasn't trying to take advantage of you, I— I was desperate."
He closed his eyes like something inside him finally clicked into place. "Allie," he said, breaking, "you could've told me anything and I still would've helped. Why did you leave me in the dark? I went everywhere we'd been. I looked for you nonstop."
"I tried to reach you," she said, crying openly now. "I swear. But I saw you kiss someone. I thought…" She shook her head. "I felt stupid. Used. Afraid."
"Kiss?" He drew back, confusion bending his brows—then memory struck. Nadine outside the office. The suddenness of it. The shock. He looked at Allie. "You were there."
She nodded, small and mortified.
"Why didn't you come up to me? Ask me?" His voice wasn't accusation—it was ache.
"It wasn't my place. I had no pride left. I…" Her throat closed. She couldn't say I loved you without breaking.
He didn't let her finish. He pulled her into his arms, rain-damp clothes chilling and warm at once.
"That kiss was a confession," he said into her hair. "I didn't ask for it. I was caught off guard. I searched for you after, Allie. Every spot you'd ever taken me." He swallowed. "When I couldn't find you, I tried to move on. I dated her. I told myself it was right." A breath. "It wasn't. I ended it because it wasn't you. It could never be."
Silence, except for their breathing and the rain ticking against the balcony glass.
"Please," he said finally, voice gone to thread. "Give me a chance."
"I'm scared," she whispered. "Of having faith. Of needing someone. My dad promised forever and then disappeared. I can't survive that twice."
"I'm not your dad," he said, steady now. "I won't promise perfection. I will promise this: I will do the work. I will show up. I will love you, and when I mess up, I will mend it. I won't leave." He lifted her face with careful fingers. "I love you."
He kissed her again—longer, slower, like a vow—and this time she didn't run.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
Inside, two people—finally honest—stood in a small, warm room and let the past unspool so the future had somewhere to land.