Not like earlier, when she’d been fighting like a wildcat—wet, furious, and out of control.
She was a natural beauty.
And I couldn’t look away.
I closed the spreadsheet I was working on and leaned forward, bracing my elbows on the desk and locking my eyes on the screen.
She walked into the wide-open expanse of the penthouse’s main area. The living room and kitchen glowed with soft amber light—pre-programmed for late evening. The fireplace pulsed gently behind its glass. A classical piano piece played from the speakers surrounding the living room.
She paused at the edge of the kitchen, scanning every inch, glancing toward the foyer that led to the private elevator and then across the living room.
She was searching for me.
Her hands remained loose at her sides. There was no tension in her shoulders, no defensiveness in her posture. Just quiet curiosity and maybe a touch of resolve.
And then she turned and headed toward my office.
My hand moved to the keyboard, and I killed the live feed.
By the time the door opened, I was already tapping away on my keyboard, with the spreadsheet on display.
She knocked on the doorframe and stepped inside.
I turned in my chair to catch her scrutinizing the room.
Her brow lifted as she gave me an unimpressed smirk.
“So this is your hacker’s lair…where you’ve been watching me.”
I ran my hand over my chin, studying her for a second. “Something like that,” I said, trying to gauge her mood after everything that had just happened. I was honestly surprised she was talking to me and not coming at me with a kitchen knife.
She stepped further inside. Her gaze drifted across the racks of servers, the wall of monitors, and then back to me.
Her nose wrinkled slightly.
“This room’s nothing like the rest of the place,” she said, coming to stand in front of me. “Everything else feels like…old money with exceptional taste. This?” She scanned the room again. “This feels like the inside of a machine.”
It hadn’t been said as an accusation, more like an observation.
I nodded. “That’s because it is.”
Her gaze landed on me again, and for a second, we remained frozen, facing each other—two people who had been through too much in too little time, pretending like we hadn’t just unraveled each other.
“I’d like to talk,” she said matter-of-factly.
“I’d like that too,” I said cautiously.
She started to pull out the chair beside me, but I quickly stood. This wasn’t the space to relax and try to have an actual conversation.
“How about I fix us a drink and we make ourselves comfortable in the living room?”
She nodded and followed me out of the office without another word.
I went to the kitchen, pulled down a bottle of red wine, and poured her a glass. Then I poured myself another vodka neat.
We moved to the L-shaped white leather sectional in the living room. I took the corner closest to the fireplace and sat forward, planting my feet and bracing my forearms on my thighs. I tapped my fingertips together, like I needed something to distract myself from the apprehension crawling under my skin.
Lyla curled up on the other side of the sofa, tucking her feet beneath her and looping one arm loosely on the back. Her other hand toyed with the corner of a throw pillow, twisting it absent-mindedly as she took a sip of her wine.
