I check the time. My own board meeting starts in ten minutes. They’ll be panicked, wondering if the SEC contagion will spread to us. I’ll walk in there, calm and untouched, and show them that while others burn, Hollis Properties stands fireproof.
I built it that way.
By two o'clock,the fire at Thornton’s has turned into an inferno, and I decide I’ve watched enough.
My executive assistant looks surprised when I walk past his desk with my coat on.
"Mr. Hollis? You have a conference call with the Tokyo partners at four."
"Reschedule it," I say, not breaking stride. "I'm going home."
"Is everything alright?"
"Everything's perfect."
The drive by the lake gives me a second to breathe, to leave the bullshit with James and Ryder and all the work I’m letting go undone behind. Leaving downtown feels like shedding a skin. The shark stays in the office; the man goes home to his wife.
Wife.
The word still hits me with a visceral punch every time I think it. It’s an addiction I didn’t know I had until I put the ring on her finger. Every time I think about the fact she belongs to me for good, I get a high like no other.
Snow crunches under the tires of the Aston Martin as I pull through the gates. The estate glows in the twilight, warm yellow light spilling from the windows. It doesn't look like a fortress tonight. It looks like a home.
Blair’s in the kitchen when I walk in.
She’s wearing one of my sweaters—a cashmere crewneck that hangs off her shoulder—and leggings. Her hair is messy, piled on top of her head. The bruising on her face has faded significantly, leaving only faint shadows under her eyes and along her cheekbone.
She looks incredible.
"You're early," she says, turning from the stove.
"I didn’t want to be there anymore when you’re here." I cross the room, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her flush against me. It’s still hard for me to fathom the depth of my feelings for this woman. For our unborn child growing inside of her. I bury my face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of her. "How are you feeling?"
"Sore. Bored." She leans back against my hold. My grip tightens on her waist as I run my lips along her neck. Her head falls back on my shoulder and I cup her breast in my hand. It’s a little bigger already and she lets out a little moan that makes my dick hard when I brush my thumb across her nipple.
"What’s burning?" I ask, glancing over her shoulder at the stove.
"Oh, shit."
She pulls away from me and I fucking hate it. A pan of what looks like chicken is smoking ominously.
"I tried to cook," she admits, grabbing a towel to wave at the smoke. "The chef left a casserole, but I wanted to make something fresh. I thought, 'How hard can it be?' Turns out, very."
I chuckle, moving her gently aside.
"Sit," I order. "Before you burn the house down."
"I can salvage it."
"You really can't."
I take the pan off the heat, dumping the charred remains in the trash. Then I roll up my sleeves, washing my hands at the sink.
"What are you doing?" she asks, hopping onto a barstool.
"Making lunch. Since my wife is apparently a hazard in the kitchen."
"I didn't know you could cook."
