He stepped out of his shoes, loosened his tie. “Left after the call. No use staying longer.”
She stood, and went to him. Slipped her arms around his waist. He held her, one hand at her lower back, the other brushing into her hair.
Her cheek rested against his chest. She inhaled slowly. “You smell like the office.”
He pressed a kiss into her hair.
She tipped her head back, searching his face. “What is it?”
He exhaled. “London’s moved up again.”
Her brow furrowed.
“They need me to take a series of meetings in person in December,” he murmured. “I leave the week after your finals end.”
Her voice sounded small, and futile. “I thought you’d be here for Christmas.”
“I meant to be.”
He watched as all her tells surfaced. The press of her thumb against his shirt. The pause before her eyes returned to his. The way her breath moved deeper into her ribs, like she was anchoring herself.
Most people wouldn’t have seen it, but he did. Because he was the one who put that silence in her. And he hated it.
She nodded. “Okay.”
It wasn’t. They both knew that.
Bea leaned in, pressing her forehead to his chest. She tipped her face up after a minute and met his eyes. He read them like he always did: the ache she wouldn’t name, the questions she wouldn’t ask. She didn’t need to.
He kissed her then. She didn’t pull back. She rose into it.
And when he took her hand to lead her to the bedroom, she let him. Without hesitation.
The city light slipped through the high windows, casting gold across the bedding. She peeled her sweater over her head, the soft fall of it brushing the floor. He unbuttoned his shirt one-handed, so he could keep hold of her hand.
She reached for him first.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, as he guided her down to the bed. Let his hands move across her like a memory he didn’t trust time to keep.
It was her, and him, and the space between them folding in.
When he slid into her, she curled both hands to his jaw. Held his face like she was afraid it might change if she let go.
Neither of them said a word. But everything was in the silence. The way she arched into him like her body knew its place against his. The way he moved with her like this was something sacred. The way their mouths found each other over and over, unspoken questions answered in every breath.
When it was over, she lay with her back to his chest, his arm wrapped tightly around her ribs. He felt her breathing slow. Counted each inhale like a borrowed moment. Her hand rested over his.
He didn’t ask if she was okay.
And she didn’t ask if he could stay.
GAGE
The upstairs lounge was all deep wood and low lighting. Books no one read lined the walls for effect. The air held the usual mix of old scotch, cigars, and inheritance.
Gage leaned back in the high-backed armchair, one ankle resting on his knee, whisky untouched. He hadn’t planned to stay long.
Charles, the man of the hour, moved through the crowd like a statesman working a summit. Groom-to-be energy, all smiles and soft control.
