This Time He Pursues Me With All Chapter 31

Adam's POV:

Maya didn't answer.

She just stood there, gripping her purse strap so tight her knuckles turned white, jaw set like she was bracing for impact.

Finally, she turned and walked toward the bedroom.

When she came back out, she'd changed into a simple green t-shirt and matching green shorts—comfortable, casual.

She moved past me without a word, heading straight for the kitchen.

I followed.

She pulled her hair up into a messy bun, exposing the curve of her neck—long, elegant, the kind of neck I used to trace with my lips until she shivered.

*Stop.*

I dragged my eyes away, focusing on the chipped countertop, the faded linoleum floor, anything but the memory of how her skin tasted.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

*Video call—Grandmother.*

I glanced at Maya’s back. She was aggressively chopping carrots.

"I'll be right back," I muttered, turning toward the balcony door.

But my Italian leather sole hit a slick patch of water near the sink—probably from when she'd been washing vegetables.

*Shit.*

Gravity won.

I went down hard, my feet flying out from under me. I landed flat on my back right behind Maya with a heavy thud that shook the floorboards.

In my scramble to catch my balance, my thumb swiped across the screen.

*Video call connected.*

"Nngh..."

The groan slipped out before I could stop it—low, rough, and entirely too suggestive.

Grandmother’s face appeared on the screen, her eyes wide, eyebrows shooting up into her hairline.

"Oh my heavens! Adam? What on earth was *that* sound?"

"I..." I wheezed, trying to sit up.

My hand, still clutching the phone, tilted upward as I propped myself on one elbow. The camera angle shifted—pointing directly up at Maya's legs, framed perfectly from mid-thigh down in those green shorts.

Grandmother's eyes went wide. "Is that—Adam Sterling, are you at a woman's apartment?"

Her voice pitched up an octave, vibrating with sudden, electric excitement. "Robert! Robert, come here! Adam has a girlfriend!"

"Grandmother—" I started.

"Is it the girl from the penthouse?" She was practically bouncing now.

My father's voice drifted in from the background, calm and unimpressed. "Mom, the office has been spreading rumors that Adam has a *son* now. You really shouldn't believe every piece of gossip you hear or invent your own."

"I am not inventing anything!" Grandmother shrieked, delighted. "I'm on a video call with him right now!"

Maya spun around at the sound of the voice.

She looked down at me, sprawled at her feet. Then she looked at the phone in my hand, angling up her body.

Her face went from flushed to furious in a nanosecond.

*Thwack.*

Her bare foot connected with my shin. Hard.

"Ow!" I jerked back, the phone wobbling wildly.

But Grandmother was too busy chattering to notice.

I hit the red button.

The screen went black.

Silence crashed back into the kitchen, heavy and awkward.

I stayed on the floor for a second longer, rubbing my shin, before slowly standing up.

Maya was glaring at me, her arms crossed over her chest.

"You," she said, voice trembling, "are unbelievable."

"It was an accident," I said, dusting off my pants. "I slipped."

"Get out."

"Maya—"

"Get out of my kitchen."

I looked at her—at the flush spreading down her neck.

I bit back a smile.

"I'll wash the vegetables," I said, already moving to the sink.

She glanced at me, startled, then quickly looked away. "I said I don't need help."

I ignored her. Turned on the faucet. Picked up a bundle of celery.

Five years ago, we used to do this all the time—cook together in her tiny Cleveland apartment. She'd chop vegetables while I washed dishes, and sometimes we'd get distracted, and the food would burn, and we'd laugh about it later while eating takeout on the floor.

Sometimes we didn't make it to the chopping part at all.

I glanced at her now—at the way her hair fell in loose strands against her neck, the curve of her waist, the way her hips swayed slightly as she stirred the pot.

Heat coiled low in my stomach.

*Stop.*

I dropped the celery in the sink and walked out of the kitchen.

---

I stood by the window, hands shoved in my pockets, staring out at the street below.

This was insane.

I'd spent five years convincing myself I was over her. Five years telling myself she was just another woman who'd chosen money over me. Five years building walls so high, so thick, that nothing could get through.

And then I saw her again.

And all of it—every brick, every defense, every fucking lie I'd told myself—crumbled.

I couldn't stay away from her.

Couldn't stop thinking about her.

Couldn't stop wanting her.

Even now, knowing what she was, knowing what she'd done, I still wanted her.

*Pathetic.*

I pulled out my phone, typed a quick message to Ethan.

**Need a drink. The Harvard Club.**

His reply came almost immediately.

**Parker's traveling. Just us?**

**Yeah.**

**Be there in 20.**

I left without saying goodbye.

Slipped out the door while Maya was still in the kitchen, while Amy was in her room reading a storybook.

---

By the time I got to the club, Ethan was already in our usual private room, a fresh bottle of whiskey on the table.

He looked up when I walked in. "You look like shit."

I dropped into the chair across from him and grabbed the bottle, pouring myself a generous glass.

"Thanks."

"I'm serious. What's going on?"

I downed the whiskey in one swallow. Poured another.

Ethan watched me, eyebrows raised. "Dude. You planning to finish that whole bottle tonight?"

"Maybe."

"Adam—"

"Drop it."

But he didn't. He leaned back, arms crossed, studying me with that annoying big-brother look. "Let me guess. Woman trouble."

I didn't answer. Just poured another drink.

I drank. The burn felt good. Clean.

"Ethan. Seriously. Drop it."

He sighed, reaching for his own glass. "Fine. But for the record, drinking yourself into a coma isn't going to fix whatever this is."

"I know."

"Do you? Because you're halfway through that bottle already."

I ignored him. Poured another.

"Jesus Christ." He shook his head. "You're going to be wrecked tomorrow."

"Good."

"Good?"

I muttered into my glass, barely audible. "Better drunk than thinking about her."

"What?"

I looked up, meeting his eyes. "Nothing."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then he sighed again, rubbing his face. "You know what, man? I'm here. Whatever you need. But you gotta talk to me. I can't help if you won't tell me what's going on."

---

Maya's POV:

I didn't hear him leave.

One moment he was standing by the window, silent and still, and the next—he was gone.

Just like that.

No goodbye.

No explanation.

*Typical.*

I stood there in the kitchen, staring at the empty living room, my hands trembling as I gripped the edge of the counter.

Amy wandered in, rubbing her eyes. "Where's Uncle Adam?"

"He left."

"Oh." She frowned. "He didn't say bye."

"No. He didn't."

She looked up at me, her expression too wise for a four-year-old. "Are you mad at him?"

*Yes.*

"No, sweetheart. I'm just tired."

She nodded, accepting the lie, and climbed onto a stool. "Can I help with dinner?"

I smiled, forcing the tension out of my shoulders. "Of course."