Chapter Eight
Since the start of her internship, Bea had been lunching with Gage most days. Nothing elaborate—sushi, salad, sandwiches in his office while he asked about her day.
She liked those lunches. Liked the way he sat across from her while they ate, listening with amusement at her stories, even though he had much bigger deals that he was playing with. She just liked how it felt to be near him.
But ever since Catherine had appeared in her office, Bea had started making excuses. She wasn’t proud of it. It was hard sitting across from Gage and acting like she was fine. Like Catherine’s words weren’t still lodged beneath her skin.
Today’s latest was:“It’s so charming how you work by instinct. It’s so…unfiltered.”
Not inspired. Not original. ‘Unfiltered.’ Like her work was too cloudy to serve.
She’d said it with a smile, in front of two associates and Bea’s supervisor. It had landed like a pin. Sharp enough to sting. Small enough to pretend she imagined it.
She needed air.
She crossed the street, weaving past suits and heels toward the park just off Temple Row.
She’d never set foot in it before—purpose-built for the kind of people who ran five kilometers between conference calls—but there were benches along the edge. Shade. Space. And, most importantly, no one watching her try to prove herself.
She wished she could talk to her friend Lillian Clarke, fellow scholarship girl, observant, exactly the kind of outsider who wouldn’t need it explained. Or Georgina Ashcroft, Gage’s cousin and Bea’s housemate, who would’ve said something outrageous just to make her laugh.
Someone who was here, but wasn’t Gage. Who wouldn’t be obliged to fix it, and could just sit beside her and commiserate.
She found an empty bench. Runners blurred past on the path ahead, one after another. She barely noticed them. Until her eyes landed on someone familiar.
Rafael Griffin.
There was no mistaking him. Not at full tilt, tearing down the asphalt like he was chasing something that owed him blood.
He wore a dark athletic shirt, damp and clinging, outlining a body sculpted by force, not vanity. Built for speed, combat, and starring in the kind of inappropriate fantasies that queued up unbidden in the female brain.
On his next lap around, he saw her. Eyes locked onto hers and didn’t let go. He altered course, but so subtly it was as though he’d been heading for her the whole time.
He was meters in front of her before she remembered to look unaffected.
“Little Bea,” he said, tugging one earbud free as he slowed to a prowl, corded forearm flexing with restrained power. Sharp-jawed, clean shaven, all symmetry. “Back in Northgate.”
That nickname. The one that definitely didnotget under her skin.
His breathing was elevated, every inch of him alive—skin gleaming, chest rising, heat radiating like a furnace. Like standing too close would melt you.
Her pulse stuttered. “Hey.”
“When’d you get back?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“And I’m only seeing you now?”
She tried to shrug. “It’s not like I’ve been hiding.”
“Guess not.”
She crossed her arms. “Where’ve you been?”
That earned a smile. Crooked. Knowing. It made her feel too warm in the sun. “Why, were you looking for me?”
She knew better than to answer.
