And yet when Jasmine’s hand brushed mine earlier, when her fingers tapped the back of my hand as if it was the most natural thing for her to do, it sparked something sharp and low in my gut.
A flicker of heat.
A whisper of joy.
A sense of completeness.
Her allure isn’t that she’s young, beautiful, and sexy. Or that after years of easy celibacy my libido’s making demands. But that looking after her, being around her, fills me with a sense of ease, of purpose, of my world being just right.
That thought terrifies me even more than the cliché of a middle-aged man lusting after the young woman he can’t have.
Chapter 3
Jasmine
When I return to the kitchen, the first thing I notice is how the light filters through the big windows, bouncing off the polished counters, catching the silver strands of Mr. Grayson’s hair.
He’s sitting at the dining table.
The omelet’s gone. The muffin’s reduced to crumbs. And in his hand is one of my mugs—the bright yellow one with the fat little bee on it.
He always pretends not to notice that he likes to drink his coffee from it every morning. The same way that he pretends he isn’t aware of me.
I won’t believe that anymore.
Mr. Grayson may sidestep emotions, default to charm when things get complicated, but at least he’s never hidden himself from me.
He must’ve showered while I was with Sophie.
Now he’s dressed in a dark navy suit, crisp white shirt open just enough at the collar to tease. Every part of him radiates control, power, restraint. He’s the embodiment of every powerful, sexy, alpha hero I’ve ever narrated.
I run a hand over my belly, suddenly aware of how grubby I feel in contrast. My tank clings to my ribs. My scalp’s still damp from the steam of Sophie’s shower, and my hands smell like eucalyptus oil.
I cross the room slowly, trying to smooth my hair, hyperaware of the film of sweat at the back of my knees.
My skin tingles as he beckons me. He’s placed my plate at the opposite end of the table. The far end.
A message to put me in my place, and it stings.
For a second, I falter. My heart drops.
Something of the fighter I’ve always been whispers,why did he feel the need to put distance between us?
He’s never done it before.
I swallow my doubts, smile broadly, and make my way to him. “Sophie wants to sleep in,” I say as I slide into the chair. “A tension headache. I gave her a quick head massage.”
He nods. “Does she need anything?”
“Nope. She’ll nap another hour or so.”
His voice is quiet. “Thank you.”
I blink.
He adds, “For everything you do.”
The words land too softly to be rehearsed, yet there’s something deeper beneath them that I can’t reach.
