My brain short-circuits because we’re already fake-engaged, so what the hell?—?
“Kaz—what are you?—”
But he’s already taking the heels from Tasha, his movements calm and deliberate, like this is the most natural thing in the world. His hand slides gently around my ankle, warm and steady, guiding my foot into the shoe with careful precision. I have to reach out and grip his shoulders anyway. The bulge of muscle beneath rough linen practically makes me swoon.
The intimacy of it hits me so hard that I forget how to breathe. This man commands hundreds of people. Men with guns. Men who would bleed for him without question.
And he’s kneeling on the floor to put my shoes on.
For me.
My face burns so hot I’m certain I must be glowing.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper, mortified and overwhelmed all at once.
“I want to,” he replies simply, fastening the strap.
He repeats the motion with the other heel, just as gentle and focused. The room is so quiet I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. When he stands again, he doesn’t let go of my hand. He presses his lips softly to my knuckles, his breath warm against my skin.
“Perfect,” he murmurs.
Something in my chest melts completely.
The helicopter ride feels like stepping into someone else’s life.
The city shrinks beneath us, lights scattering like spilled diamonds, and I sit strapped in beside him with a headset on. His thigh rests solid and warm against mine, his hand heavy on my knee in a way that feels instinctive rather than possessive. It feels like he just needs to know I’m still there.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Hilton Head,” he says. “I wanted to do something nice for you; just dinner.”
I stare at him. “You chartered a helicopter for dinner?”
“It’s faster,” he replies with a shrug. But in a way this makes sense; after all, his public-facing personalitydoesown an entire aerotech company.
The beach appears like something out of a movie, pale sand stretching wide and empty, lanterns glowing near the shoreline where a small table has already been set. A few staff move quietly in the background, unobtrusive and efficient, setting plates and pouring wine like this is the most normal thing in the world.
It’s private, beautiful, and completely insane.
“Kaz,” I breathe, because there aren’t enough words.
He helps me down onto the sand, steadying me with a hand at my waist, his touch careful.
The smell of dinner drifts toward us, rich and buttery and?—
Shellfish. Mussels, it looks like, and lobster.
My stomach immediately revolts at the verythoughtof shellfish. He notices before I can even make a face.
A server appears with a separate covered plate just for me.
“Chicken,” Kaz says calmly. “Potatoes. Bread. Nothing from the ocean.”
I blink at him. “You flew me to a beach…to not eat seafood?”
His expression doesn’t change. “Seafood makes you sick right now. Unless that’s changed…?” Worry flickers across his brow, but I laugh, and it disappears.
“I think I’m the only woman alive who gets chicken at a luxury beach dinner,” I say.
