Cole parks in my reserved spot and kills the engine. Before I can reach for the door handle, he's already out and opening it for me.
"I can open my own door," I say, the familiar exchange comforting. We've been doing this dance for a while now.
"I know," he responds, with a little mock bow, like he always does.
We take the private elevator that requires both a key and a code, accessible only to me and a select few others. The mirrored walls reflect us back—me in my black dress, Cole towering beside me in his black suit and white shirt.
Two years ago, my father wanted to give me half a dozen bodyguards. I refused, the idea of being surrounded by security makes me feel more like a prisoner than protected. We compromised on one bodyguard-slash-driver who'd stay with me 24/7.
When Cole first walked into Dad's office, I knew I was in trouble. The hottest, most gorgeous man I've ever seen filled the doorway like he'd been built to the exact specifications of my most secret fantasies. Well, well, two years.
Two years of inappropriate thoughts about him. Two years of filthy fantasies that keep me awake at night. Two years of trying not to stare at the way his throat moves when he swallows, how his shoulders stretch his suit jacket, or his big, veiny hands flex on the steering wheel, while his muscles roll and roil in his forearms.
Two years of noticing. Two years of torment. Abject failure to act.
In the mirror, I watch his reflection as he keeps his gaze forward, professional as always. The suit fits him perfectly. Dad insisted on that, said if Cole was going to follow me into board meetings and charity galas, he should look the part.
Honestly, Cole could wear nothing but a flannel shirt and jeans, and the effect would be the same.
I wonder, sometimes, if Dad knew. If he saw the way I look at Cole when I think no one is watching. If he noticed how I always look over my shoulder to check if Cole's there.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal my private hallway. Just one door—my apartment, the penthouse that takes up the entire top floor. Cole steps out first, checking the hallway before allowing me to exit.
God, I'm so tired. Tired of being strong, of holding it together, of pretending I know what I'm doing. Of holding my tongue. Being sweet, meek,MerryMeredith. Of being matched with men I wouldn't date if they were the last men on earth.
Maybe it's the exhaustion or something else, but the words slip out before I can stop them.
"Maybe you should just marry me instead," I say, leaning against the wall.
I expect Cole to brush me off in that adorably gruff way of his. To remind me that he works for me, that there are boundaries, professional lines we don't cross. That I am his client, nothing more, nothing less.
Instead, Cole stops, turns, and plants one palm against the wall above my head.
I'm caged in—back to the wall, his body close enough that his hard chest brushes against my breasts. He's not touching me, but might as well be. With him this close, my last brain cells die.
His voice, when it comes, is low and rough. "I would if I could."
My breath stops. Protocol, be damned.
My heart slams against my ribs as I stare up at him, searching his face for any sign he's joking. But Cole isn't joking, at least, he doesn't look like it. His jaw clenches, his heated gaze drops to my mouth, and heat floods my body. His breath flames my cheeks. I drop my eyes.
I realize in this moment, I want nothing more than to be kissed by him.
Breathe, Ms. Ashton, I tell myself. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.
2
COLE
She's still staring up at me, her breath caught, pupils blown wide, lips slightly parted. My hand remains braced on the wall above her head as every cell in my body strains toward her.
I've never been this close to her, so close I can see the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, so close I can hear her swallow hard.
Two years.
Two fucking years of keeping my hands to myself, burying my desires, and never crossing that line.The line I'm about to obliterate.
Her pulse flutters visibly at the hollow of her throat. I watch it, fascinated by this tangible evidence of her desire. For me. Not her bodyguard, not her employee. Me.
