His smile widened and he pulled back onto the road, his hand finding mine again.
We were driving through the city when his phone rang—Jake, panicking because his girlfriend had left him after he cheated. Archer told him there was no fixing it, only accepting consequences and hoping she’d choose to try again, then hung up and squeezed my hand without saying anything more.
His Tribeca penthouse had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The space was beautiful—clean lines, carefully chosen furniture, nothing ostentatious but everything quality. It felt lived-in rather than staged, comfortable rather than showy.
“Welcome home,” he said, watching me take it in with a small, hopeful smile.
I walked to the windows and looked out at Manhattan glittering below us. “It’s beautiful.” Then I turned back to him with a grin. “Very CEO of you. Do you brood dramatically in front of these windows often?”
“Every morning with my coffee.” He came up behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist. “Sometimes I stand here thinking about hostile takeovers and crushing my enemies.”
“Liar.”
“You’re right.” His chin rested on my shoulder. “Mostly I think about you. About whether you’re eating enough for breakfast, when I can see you again without seeming desperate.”
“That last one doesn’t really work when you were calling me six times a day.”
“I said seeming desperate. I was absolutely desperate.” He turned me around to face him. “I still am. Can’t believe you’re here.”
“Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know.” His expression turned serious. “Sometimes I still can’t believe you’re giving me another chance.”
“Stop.” I put my hand over his mouth. “No more of that. We’re past the groveling phase.”
He kissed my palm, then gently moved my hand away. “What phase are we in now?”
“The phase where you show me your bedroom and stop overthinking everything.”
His eyes darkened. “I can do that.”
“Can you? Because you’re still standing here talking.”
“You’re mean when you want something.”
“You like it when I’m mean.”
“I really do.” He kissed me then, deep and thorough, his hands sliding down to my hips. When he pulled back, his smile was wicked. “Bedroom’s this way. Try to keep up.”
“I’m in heels!”
“I know.” He was already walking backward down the hallway, that infuriating smirk on his face. “Makes it more fun.”
I kicked off the heels and followed him, laughing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
We barely made it to the bedroom. Somewhere between the living room and the hallway, my jacket hit the floor. His shirt followed near the doorway.
“You’re impatient,” I said against his mouth, laughing as he backed me toward the bed.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day.” His hands found the zipper of my dress. “Is this okay? We can slow down if you want?—”
I kissed him to shut him up, then reached back and pulled the zipper down myself. “I want this. I want you. Stop overthinking.”
“I don’t know how to stop overthinking.”
