The kettle whistles. I prepare my coffee exactly how I prefer it—black, no adornments. Then I hesitate, eyes lingering on the empty mugs standing at attention on the counter. Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach for a second one.
Elle takes her coffee with a precise amount of cream—not milk, specifically cream—and no sugar. I’ve seen her order it three times during business conventions. Once at the Charleston tech summit, once at the New York investor conference, and again yesterday on the plane. Three data points are enough to establish a pattern. It’s not like I was specifically watching her.I notice everything. It’s what keeps me alive in boardrooms and bedrooms alike.
I pour the second cup, adding cream until the color matches what I remember. This is purely practical, I tell myself. Keeping her functioning at optimal levels benefits us all. Nothing more.
The sound of soft footsteps makes me straighten, coffee mugs in hand. Elle appears in the doorway, her professional armor already in place despite the early hour—silk blouse, pencil skirt, hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. But there are cracks in the façade.
Faint shadows beneath her eyes. A slight stiffness in her posture that speaks of discomfort. Her blockers holding, but just barely. I can tell she applied a fresh layer before emerging from her room.
“Good morning,” she says, voice carefully neutral. Her eyes land on the two coffee mugs, and something flickers across her face—surprise, suspicion, confusion.
I extend one toward her without explanation. She hesitates before accepting it, her fingers carefully avoiding contact with mine.
She takes a cautious sip, then freezes. Her dark eyes lift to mine, narrowed and assessing. “How did you know how I take my coffee?”
“I notice things,” I answer simply. “It’s a habit.”
“A habit,” she repeats, disbelief evident. “You habitually memorize how virtual strangers take their coffee?”
I lean against the counter, creating deliberate space between us. “I memorize details that might be relevant. Information is leverage.”
“And how I take my coffee is leverage?” There’s a hint of amusement now beneath the suspicion.
“Everything is potentially leverage.” I take a sip of my own coffee, watching her over the rim. “The world belongs to those who pay attention.”
She studies me for a long moment, head tilted slightly. I can almost see the calculations running behind her eyes, reassessing whatever she thought she knew about Miles Harrington.
“Well,” she finally says, lifting her mug in a small salute, “thank you for the leverage.”
Her lips curve into something almost like a smile, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. Elle Park doesn’t smile often—not genuine smiles that reach her eyes. She offers professional pleasantries, polite curves of her lips that mean nothing.
This is different. This is real. And it hits me with unexpected force.
The moment shatters as Caleb’s voice rings out from the doorway. “Morning, roomies! Isn’t forced cohabitation fun?”
He saunters in, all easy confidence and deliberate casualness. Board shorts, unbuttoned linen shirt revealing bronze skin, hair artfully tousled like he just rolled out of bed looking camera-ready. His eyes land on Elle’s coffee mug, then on me, a knowing smirk spreading across his face.
“Well, well,” he drawls. “Harrington’s got hidden depths. Coffee service included with the brooding?”
I don’t respond, just sip my coffee and watch as he moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, opening the refrigerator and cabinets like he owns the place. He’s doing it on purpose—establishing dominance over the shared space, making himself at home. Classic Alpha posturing.
What’s more interesting is how he navigates around Elle. His movements seem random, but I recognize the pattern. He’s creating opportunities for proximity, for “accidental” contact. As he reaches past her for a glass, his arm brushes hers. The touch is brief, casual—and completely deliberate.
I catch the slight flare of his nostrils. He’s scenting her. Subtle, but unmistakable.
Elle stiffens, a nearly imperceptible tensing of her shoulders. She takes a step back, creating distance without making it obvious she’s retreating. I’ve seen the same move in business negotiations when someone’s encroaching on her personal space. Calculated withdrawal that never reads as surrender.
“Sorry,” Caleb says, not sounding sorry at all. “Tight quarters.”
The kitchen is approximately four hundred square feet. There’s nothing “tight” about these quarters.
“Perhaps you could be more mindful of personal space,” I suggest, voice flat.
Caleb grins, all teeth and challenge. “Always so serious, Harrington. Life’s more fun when you get a little closer to people.”
He pours himself orange juice, then leans against the counter directly across from Elle. I notice how he positions himself—in her line of sight, relaxed posture showcasing his physique, inviting attention while pretending not to seek it.
Calculated. Every bit as strategic as Adrian’s rigid control or my deliberate distance.
