Not intentional.
But definitely electric.
I froze. So did he.
His breath caught for just a second, and I swore the entire interior of the car tightened with it.
I bit my lip, heart thudding.
Tristan, mercifully oblivious, just groaned. “Seriously, my knees will be in my chin if I have to sit in the back.”
Leo pulled back slowly, gaze flicking to me—sharp, unreadable—and unlocked the door.
This time, I opened it myself.
I slid out, brushing past Tristan, who wasted no time collapsing dramatically into the passenger seat. “Finally. Some respect for the vertically gifted.”
I didn’t answer.
I got into the back, still feeling the ghost of Leo’s arm. Still hearing that sharp inhale like it shockedhim,too.
He slid behind the wheel and slammed the door. The engine growled to life, low and mean, and then Leo stomped the gas—harder than necessary.
The tires kicked up gravel.
We peeled out of the driveway like we had something to prove.
And maybe we did.
The lounge was the kind of place that smelled like old money and aged whiskey.
Plush leather chairs. Low lighting. Shelves lined with antique books no one had touched in years, and a fireplace that probably lit with a remote. It was all veryclubhouse-meets-Harvard-elites-only.
I stood awkwardly by the heavy oak table while Leo tookthe spot at the head like a king returning to his throne. His fingers drummed against the polished surface. Not impatient. Just calculating.
Tristan lingered near the wall-length windows, phone in hand, already texting with the kind of intensity that suggested drama.
He glanced over at Leo. “Hampton’s chick’s legal team just dropped a press release. Gonna go handle it before Dad has an aneurysm.”
Then, to me, with a wink: “Behave.”
And he was gone.
The door clicked shut behind him, and just like that… we were alone.
Leo didn’t speak right away.
He just sat there, watching me like he was waiting to see what move I’d make next. Like I was a puzzle he half-solved and wanted to rip apart just to put back together again.
I shifted my weight, pulled out a chair.
“I can order my own coffee, you know.”
His mouth curved—slow and smug. “You hesitated on the latte. I saw it. Vanilla oat milk, everything on the side. It’s your vibe.”
I rolled my eyes. “You don’t know my vibe.”
He leaned back, arms draped lazily over the armrests. “Don’t need to. I read people.”
