He’d never forgotten her.
Nearly twenty years ago, Amy Greene had been the girl next door—laughing over chemistry homework, the way her hair caught the sunlight, her shy smile whenever he passed. But high school was a field of “what-ifs,” and neither of them had the courage to speak the words that hovered between them.
Now, in his mid-forties and freshly promoted, Michael found himself in Verona on a corporate retreat. On the first evening, he ducked into the hotel bar for a quiet drink—and froze when he saw her across the room, leaning over the railing of the mezzanine, silhouetted against the sunset.
Amy.
She hadn’t changed much: that same graceful curve to her neck, and her hair—now streaked with silver—still fell in waves that made his heart scramble. She wore a tailored suit and held a glass of Chianti, alone. When she turned and caught his eye, her breath hitched, just as his did.
“Michael?” she whispered, and her voice was the same soft lilt he’d memorized in sophomore year.
He crossed the room in three strides. She met him halfway, and for a heartbeat they simply stared—two people caught at the brink of years and regrets.
Then Amy brushed her hand across his lapel. “I always wondered,” she said, voice low. “Why didn’t we ever try?”
He swallowed. “I was a coward.”
Her laugh was soft, almost trembling. “Not tonight.”
She guided him upstairs, the corridor’s carpet muffling their footsteps. In her room, the lights were dim—just the glow of a single lamp. She turned to him, sliding out of her blazer so slowly he could trace every line of her shoulders with his eyes.
He pressed his palms to her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin through silk. Amy’s breath shivered as he leaned in, kissing the curve of her throat. She sighed, tilting her head back, and he traced the fine silver hairs, worshipping every inch of her grown-up body.
Their clothes fell away in a tangle of urgency and reverence. Years of longing poured into every touch—her fingertips mapping his back, his mouth burning a trail over her collarbone. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him close, and when he entered her, it felt like coming home.
They moved together in slow, delicious rhythm, rediscovering each other with a hunger tempered by time. When they came, it was together—soft cries mingling in the hush of the hotel room.
Later, tangled in white sheets, Michael brushed a lock of hair from Amy’s face. “We’re not too late,” he murmured.
She smiled—eyes bright as a teenager’s, lips curved with shared secrets and new beginnings. “Never too late.”