Chapter 74 Something I Don’t Even Remember?
“If you're interested.” Amelia’s voice dipped— flirtatious. “I can make you look even more fit than this.”
Andrew’s brows lifted— amused. “Alright.”
Amelia unlocked her iPad— handed it over. “Put your IG in.”
Andrew took it— typed quickly— handed it back.
She tapped— followed him— then looked up. “I’ll message you.”
“I’ll be expecting it.” Andrew winked— light, playful. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
They stepped apart— continued in opposite directions.
He didn’t look back.
Neither did she.
The street kept moving— music, laughter, life.
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'BACK TO THE PRESENT DAY — ONE WEEK AFTER ANDREW NARRATED HOW HE AND MAGGIE MET IN COLLEGE'
The master bedroom of the multimillion-dollar mansion sat hushed at 10:25 a.m., heavy cream silk curtains drawn just enough to let slanted morning light cut across the polished walnut floor in warm, honeyed bars. The king-sized bed— four-poster mahogany, Egyptian cotton sheets in pale dove— still held the faint imprint of two bodies. One side was empty.
Andrew woke slowly— eyes fluttering open, pupils adjusting to the soft glow. He stared up at the coffered ceiling for three long breaths, then sat up in one fluid motion. The sheets slid down his bare chest. He stretched both arms wide overhead— shoulders popping, spine lengthening— then let out a loud, jaw-cracking yawn.
“Aaah-hmmm.”
He dropped his arms, rubbed the heel of one hand across his eyes, and turned his head toward Maggie’s side of the bed. Empty. Pillow dented, sheet cool.
“Where the hell is this woman?” he muttered under his breath, one eyebrow climbing.
He scooted to the edge of the mattress— legs swinging over— reached for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lit at his touch: 10:26 a.m.
“Wow. It’s 10:26 already. I woke up late.”
He dropped the phone back onto the duvet with a soft thump, stretched his arms again— another long yawn tearing out of him— then slipped his feet into black leather slippers waiting on the rug. He rose— tall, bare-chested, navy sleep pants riding low on his hips— and padded toward the master bathroom.
Inside, the space gleamed— Calacatta marble, matte-black fixtures, rainfall showerhead the size of a dinner plate. Andrew lifted the toilet seat, relieved himself in a long, steady stream. The sound echoed faintly off the tiles.
“Phew…” A soft exhale of relief as the last drops hit porcelain.
He flushed— water rushing in a powerful hush— then turned to the expansive wall mirror above the double vanity. Steam from his shower from the night before still clung faintly to the edges. He planted both palms on the cool marble counter, leaned in, and stared at his reflection.
A wide, wicked grin spread slowly across his face— corners of his mouth curling higher, eyes narrowing with dark satisfaction.
“She has no idea what is about to hit her.”
He straightened— still grinning— fingers moving to the buttons of his navy sleep shirt. One by one he undid them— fabric parting over his chest— then shrugged the shirt off his shoulders. It fell to the floor in a soft heap. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sleep pants— pushed them down— stepped out, kicking them aside. Naked now, skin still carrying the warmth of sleep, he crossed to the transparent glass shower cabinet.
He twisted the handle— water erupted from the wide rainfall head, instantly hot. Steam bloomed. He stepped under— eyes closing briefly as the spray hit his shoulders, ran down his back in rivulets. He worked shampoo into his dark brown curls— fingers massaging scalp— then lathered body wash across his chest, arms, abs. Minutes passed— five, maybe seven— pure sensation, slow turns under the water until every trace of soap was gone.
He shut the water off— silence returning except for the drip-drip from the head. Pushed the glass door open— cool air kissed damp skin, raising faint gooseflesh. He stepped out, reached for the clothes he’d dropped— shirt, pants— carried them to the wicker hamper in the corner, dropped them inside.
Then to the towel hooks— grabbed a thick grey towel, warm from the rack. He dried himself methodically— chest, arms, stomach, legs— then wrapped the towel low around his hips and walked back into the bedroom.
Some moments later Andrew stepped into the cavernous living room of the mansion— grey cashmere crewneck sweater, charcoal trousers, black loafers, small portable black briefcase swinging lightly from his right hand. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the dense Brooklyn woods outside— trees bare, sky pale grey. The room smelled of fresh linen, faint cedar from the diffuser, and the ghost of last night’s dinner.
Maggie sat on one of the long cream sectionals— legs tucked beneath her, oversized t-shirt swallowing her frame, dark hair loose around her shoulders. She looked up the moment he entered— eyes lighting, smile blooming wide and hopeful. She sprang to her feet— bare feet silent on the rug— and rushed toward him, arms opening.
“Morning, husband!”
Andrew stepped sideways— smooth, deliberate— evading the hug entirely.
“Morning.”
Maggie’s arms dropped slowly to her sides. Her smile faltered— flicker of hurt across her eyes, quickly masked. “I’ve been nothing but nice to you since you returned home. But you’re not returning it. It’s been over a week already. Is this how it used to be between us? Or are you treating me this way because of something I did before I lost my memories— something I don’t even remember?”