Dangerously Close
Langston
The drive is quiet at first. Chicago traffic hums around us, sunlight bouncing off the skyline. Sabrina’s got one leg tucked under her and her forehead pressed against the window, humming to whatever’s playing softly on the radio.
She looks peaceful.
Every now and then, she glances at me like she wants to say something, but then just smiles and looks away again.
When we turn down her street, she straightens. “You can park out front,” she says, pointing toward a narrow curb beside a brick walk-up. “I’ll just be a minute. I need to check on Olga.”
I nod automatically, warmth curling in my chest.Of courseshe’d check on her elderly neighbor. It’s such a Sabrina thing—heart first, logic second.
“That’s fine,” I tell her. “But pack enough for a couple nights. We’ll have movers come pick up the rest later in the week.”
She freezes halfway through unbuckling her seatbelt, turning to stare at me. “Pack for a couple nights?”
“Yes.”
“Langston.” My name comes out half-warning, half-laugh. “I told you, I’m not moving in with you.”
I sigh and glance over, taking in her stubborn jaw, the fire already building in her eyes. God, she’s infuriating. And beautiful.
Before she can start arguing again, I reach across the console and take her face in my hands.
Her breath catches.
I just look at her for a moment—really look. That spark, that fight, that hint of fear she’s trying so hard to hide.
Then I lean forward and press a kiss to her forehead. “Sweetheart,” I murmur, voice low, “pack for a few days.”
Her lips part like she’s about to argue again, but she doesn’t. She just sits there, wide-eyed and quiet, as I pull back.
I grab my phone from the dash, swipe it open, and scroll through my emails like nothing happened.
“Go on,” I say, eyes on the screen, voice even. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”
She huffs, muttering something about controlling billionaires and bossy husbands as she gets out of the car.
And I can’t help the small grin that pulls at my mouth.
Because underneath all that defiance… she’s still blushing.
I scroll through emails while she’s inside, half my mind on work, half on the apartment door.
Two deals waiting on my signature. One contract that needs rewriting. The usual noise.
I fire off replies, confirm numbers with my assistant, then open a new message to Mabel.
Me:
Everything on track for tonight?
Her reply comes less than a minute later.
Mabel:
Floors polished. Flowers delivered. Dining room finished. You’ll have a home fit for a wife by dinner, Mr. Blackwell.
