AVA MONROE'S POV
The next morning dawned heavy with the memory of Ethan's touch.
His thumb on my cheek had been soft, but the fire it sparked refused to die. I rolled over in bed, burying my face in the pillow, trying to
suppress the surge of emotions rising with the sun.
It wasn't love. No. That was too dramatic, too final. But something had shifted last night, and the floor beneath our feet was no longer
solid.
I got dressed slowly, choosing a cream silk blouse and tailored slacks. The perfect in-between outfit.
Not casual enough for relaxation, not formal enough to be accused of trying too hard.
It matched the limbo of our relationship.
Ethan was in the kitchen when I entered, already dressed for work. He looked up from his espresso and newspaper.
"Morning," he said, voice even.
"Morning."
There was a beat of silence.
"I'm flying out this evening. New York." He said.
"For how long?" I asked.
"A night. Maybe two." He replied.
