I turn to find Callum watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"I'm sorry," he says again, and I know he means it.
"It was a long time ago," I echo his earlier words.
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him."Is that why you take care of everyone?Because you had to start so young?"
No one has ever connected those dots so directly before.
Not even my sisters, who lived through it all with me.
"Maybe," I admit."Or maybe I'm just a control freak."
"That would make two of us."
A ghost of a smile crosses his face, and suddenly the air between us feels lighter despite the weight of our shared confidences.
He clears his throat and gestures to the suite."Make yourself comfortable.I'll find you something to sleep in."
The presidential suite is impeccably tidy except for the dining table, which is covered with architectural drawings and acquisition paperwork.
"Sorry about the mess," he says, gathering papers into a neat stack."I wasn't expecting company."
"It's fine."I move to the panoramic windows, taking in the midnight vista of Seattle's skyline."This view alone is worth walking into a paper avalanche."
He disappears briefly into the bedroom and returns with a neatly folded stack of clothing."T-shirt and sweatpants.Probably absurdly large, but better than sleeping in formalwear."
"My fashion standards drop dramatically after midnight," I assure him."This is perfect."
Our fingers brush as I accept the clothes, and that same electric current from our dance surges between us.
"I should go," he says, but doesn't move."Get back to the yacht."
"Probably," I agree, making no effort to step back."Because of those boundaries."
"Professional ones…”
"You'll be comfortable on your yacht?"
"More comfortable than sharing a suite with an employee," he says, though the way his gaze drops to my lips suggests otherwise."You'll be comfortable here?"
"More comfortable than in a house with four Petrosian women sharing one bathroom."
He smiles, the expression transforming his usually serious face."I imagine that's quite the battlefield."
"Nuclear.Charlie takes thirty-minute showers, Viktoria needs precisely eighteen minutes for her elaborate skincare routine, Susanna blow-dries her hair at full volume regardless of the hour, and Mom lectures everyone on water conservation while using all the hot water."
His smile deepens into an actual laugh."Sounds like you're the responsible one."
"I'm the middle child.We're genetically programmed for conflict mediation and silent suffering."
We've somehow drifted closer, the lighthearted conversation a thin veneer over the tension building between us.
"I really should go," he says again, softer.
"Or," I counter, surprising myself, "you could stay."
His eyes darken."That would be inappropriate."
