Need. Vulnerability.
The same desperate clinging I felt building inside my own chest.
I was falling in love with Lucas Turner. Had maybe already fallen.
And rather than running—the rational, self-preserving choice—I kept moving closer to the flame, mesmerized by its destructive beauty.
By the time I emerged, wrapped in his oversized bathrobe, he was awake. Sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, already halfway back to being Lucas Turner, CEO. The man who controlled everything in his sphere.
"Good morning," he said, his voice neutral as he set down his phone. "Sleep well?"
The polite distance in his tone stung more than his anger had.
"Well enough," I lied.
In truth, I'd slept more deeply than I had in the four days since our confrontation at the hospital, safe in the knowledge that I was back where I belonged.
Where I belonged.The thought sent a tremor through me. When had I started thinking of Lucas's arms, Lucas's bed, Lucas's life as where I belonged?
"Coffee?" he offered, gesturing toward the door. "I just brewed some."
"Please." I tightened the robe around me, suddenly conscious of my nakedness beneath the soft terry cloth.
Last night, I'd been stripped bare in more ways than one. This morning, I needed whatever armor I could find.
We moved to the kitchen in silence, the space between us charged with unspoken questions. He poured coffee into matching mugs, sliding one across the counter toward me.
"How is your father?" I asked, needing neutral ground to start.
"Recovering well. He'll be discharged tomorrow." Lucas leaned against the counter, studying me over the rim of his mug. "He asked about you."
That surprised me.
"Me? Why would he?—"
"His nurse mentioned his ‘female visitor.’ Asked who you were to me." His gaze remained steady, revealing nothing.
"I told him you were a business associate who'd kindly driven me from the airport."
Another lie in our growing collection. The irony wasn't lost on me.
"What did he say to that?"
"He said I was a fool." A ghost of a smile touched Lucas's lips.
"My father has always been perceptive."
I wrapped my hands around the warm mug, anchoring myself against the sudden vertigo of this conversation.
"What happens now, Lucas? Between us?"
"That depends."
He set his coffee down, closing the distance between us with deliberate steps.
"On what you want. On what you're willing to risk. On whether you can be honest—with me and with yourself."
Something in his measured tone, in the clinical assessment of our situation, cracked something inside me that I'd been desperately trying to hold together.
