Something about her made me take notice in a way I haven't before.
And now I'm distracted. Right before the most important meeting of my life.
I should be focused. Ready to prove I belong at the table with men who've held power for decades. Ready to show them I'm not just some outsider clawing my way up.
Instead, I'm waiting in a kitchen like some lovesick fool.
Budalla.Idiot.
The door opens.
Lily walks in.
Her cheeks are flushed. Pink spreading down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her simple shirt. Her breathing is slightly uneven. Her hair is mussed, blonde strands falling out of whatever she had it pulled back in, framing her face in a way that makes her look soft and young.
What the hell just happened?
She stops when she sees me. Surprise crossing her face, followed quickly by something more guarded. "Oh. I didn't know anyone was here."
"I came with Artan," I say. Lean back against the counter, making myself comfortable in her space. "He's in the office setting things up for an important meeting."
She moves further inside the kitchen, putting distance between us even as she enters the room. "Do you want anything?"
Yes. But I'm not about to tell her what I really want.
"I was hoping for coffee," I say instead. Keep my tone easy. Casual. "And maybe something sweet."
She starts making the coffee immediately. Her hands move with the kind of confidence that comes from repetition, from doing the same task a thousand times until it becomes muscle memory.
"All I have is cantucci," she says without looking at me.
"Perfect."
I watch her move. The way her hands work the coffee machine with deliberate care. The way she reaches for the container on the shelf, standing on her toes, the motion pulling her shirt tight across her back. The curve of her waist. The soft curves everywhere else.
She's not trying to be attractive. That's what gets me. There's no performance in her movements, no awareness that someone's watching. She's just doing what she does.
And somehow that makes it worse.
Then I see it. The wound on her forehead. Still bandaged. The skin around it bruised, yellowing at the edges.
"What happened to your head?"
She touches it reflexively, her fingers gentle against the bandage. "I was clumsy. Tripped over a box."
Bullshit.
I've heard enough lies in my life to recognize one when it's sitting right in front of me.
But I don't push. Not yet.
She sets the coffee in front of me. The cantucci arranged on a small plate beside it, the almond biscuits perfectly positioned. Our fingers brush when she hands me the cup.
The contact is brief. Her skin warm against mine for half a second before she pulls away.
But I felt it.
And by the way her breath caught, she felt it too.
