One Last Job

by Anise Starre

I don’t know how, but her laugh, soft and tinkling, cuts through the loud, thumping music and hits my ears like she’s standing right next to me. What a laugh. I want to hear it again.

A few seconds longer and I think I would’ve caved and given her everything she wanted. I still might.

“And your beanbag will be in the office waiting for you.” Along with me.

The last half an hour or so with Amber might just be the highlight of my year so far.

I’d give her every last one of my minutes on Earth if it meant I’d never have to see or hear her like that again.

I could tell her that it’s because I never want to see her look so frustrated and vulnerable ever again if I can help it. Or that it’s because maybe I want to be her hero right now so she can shine that beautiful smile on me even for just a few seconds.

I add “seeing her blush” to my rapidly growing list of my favourite things about her. It sits right there between “the sound of her laugh” and “that look she gives me when I’ve annoyed her.”

I don’t know how she could possibly think that. I’ve got my elbow propped up on the table, my chin resting in the palm of my hand, my gaze focused solely on her. Can she really not tell how enamoured I am with her? How I could

easily sit here for years listening to her talk about colour schemes and something called “modern organic” design and never, ever get bored?

“Beautiful, passionate, stubborn women who don’t have a problem telling me what they really think about me.” She lifts a brow and hums. “That’s very specific.” “I know what I like.” She tries to hide her smile by spearing some chicken onto her fork and taking a bite. “Well, I hope you find her one of these days.” I wonder how long we’re going to pretend like I haven’t already.

“Don’t do that.” Her brows furrow. “Don’t do what?” “Make yourself small.”

“You don’t have to do that around me, sweetheart.” I’m not going to dismiss you. I’m not going to make you feel like your wins don’t matter.

“But humour me,” I continue. “Let me still act like I’m the one in charge around here.” “As long as we both know it’s just an act.” “I’m well aware, sweetheart.”

I arch a brow. “So you can smile, then?” “Now I have a reason to.”

when I

turn back to Hawthorne he’s got his eyes firmly planted on me. “What?” “Nothing,” he says. “Just admiring the view.”

“It is a beautiful view though.” “Which one are you talking about now?” I feel, rather than hear, the quiet laugh that rumbles through his chest. “Assume I’m always talking about you, sweetheart.”

Can a passion be a person? Because right now she’s the only thing I feel strongly about. This beautiful, passionate, stubborn woman who doesn’t think twice about telling me what I really need to hear. I’d happily dedicate my life to making her happy if she’d let me.

“I’ll keep that in mind when I’m in the market for my second home. It’ll be something on a lake and very expensive. So you better start saving now.” She’s joking, but I’m not. If she’s asking, I’m buying.

I can’t get enough of him. If kissing Finn is the only thing I do for the rest of my life, I’d die happy and content.

“There are too many people in this building right now, and the first time I fuck you, it’s going to be somewhere you can scream my name.”

“You’ve made me a better man, honestly. More thoughtful. Considerate. Trusting. And my life is infinitely brighter with you in it.”

I don’t think I’ll ever get over how easily he reads me. Like I’m his favourite book he’s memorised from front to back and there are no secrets hiding between my pages.

“Finn,” I say slowly, realisation dawning on me. “Who am I designing this house for?” “For us,” he says simply. “I bought this place for us.”

“I’m going to marry you one day, Amber.” He says it so simply, like it’s a given fact of life. The sky is blue, the Earth is round and, one day, Finn Hawthorne is going to marry me.

“AWH Interiors?” He flashes me a grin. “Amber Wyatt-Hawthorne Interiors.”