That earns me a soft and deliberate look that lingers solong, it sinks right through me. Then he dips his head slightly, so his lips are at my ear. “You know, you look beautiful tonight.”
I swallow hard. “You already said that.”
“I know,” he says. “I just thought you should hear it again.”
My breath catches. All I can feel is him and the steady rhythm of his heart under my palm, the heat of his hard body pressed against mine, the way his gaze drops briefly to my mouth before finding my eyes again. Is he going to kiss me? Right here, in the center of the crowded ballroom?
His chocolate eyes are locked on mine with such sharp, unblinking intensity it feels like he’s holding me in place—like one wrong breath might shatter whatever fragile, electric thing is tightening between us.
He shouldn’t look at me like that. I shouldn’t want him to. But God help me, I do.
“Jesse,” I whisper.
He exhales, a quiet laugh escaping. “Yeah. I know.”
We keep swaying, caught somewhere between wanting and restraint. His thumb strokes the small of my back, and I think I might melt right here. For a few perfect seconds, there’s no past, no parents, no expectations. Just us—his breath near my ear, his hand warm and sure, the world held still. The lights dim a little as his thumb continues to brush an idle circle against my spine. My pulse stumbles.
When I glance up, he’s watching me. Really watching me. His eyes drop to my mouth, linger there, and the room disappears. The chatter, the clinking glasses, the hum of the band…it all blurs to nothing.
He leans in. Just slightly. Barely a breath between us.
“Madeline,” he murmurs, my name catching low in his throat
My heart hammers. I should pull back. I should remind him that he’s my boss, that there are so many people around, that this is reckless and stupid and a hundred different kinds ofdangerous. But all I can think about is how close he is. How much closer I want him to be.
His hand drifts higher, fingertips grazing the bare skin between my shoulder blades and every nerve in my body lights up. I tilt my chin up without meaning to, drawn toward him like gravity, and for a suspended heartbeat, we hover right there caught between what’s safe and what’s inevitable.
Then someone brushes against me on their way onto the dance floor and the spell is broken.
He doesn’t kiss me. But he doesn’t step back either. Instead, his voice drops low, a rough whisper only I can hear. “Mads, if we weren’t in a room full of people…”
I swallow, heat rushing through me. “Then what?”
His mouth curves in a dangerous, devastating smile. “You’d find out.”
The words settle between us like a secret we both already know.
NINETEEN
Madeline
If someone had told me last month that I’d end the night in Jesse’s arms under a giant chandelier, I would’ve laughed myself unconscious. But I can still feel the phantom press of his palm against the small of my back. I still remember the way he’d looked at me like I was the only person in the room. I replay the moment he leaned in, his breath brushing my cheek like he was about to kiss me.
The rest of the evening passed quickly in a blur of handshakes, polite smiles, more champagne, and my mother shooting daggers at me and Jesse from across the room. But her glares and judgement didn’t seem to stick to me the way they normally do. Because the whole time, Jesse stayed close. Not hovering, just there. A steady, solid warmth at my back. A subtle touch at my elbow. A quiet, “You okay?” when he thought no one else was listening.
And then the night was over.
The car ride back to the hotel promises to be its own kind of slow torture. We slide into the back of the ride-share, both of us a little breathless, the air thick with whatever we’d beendancing around earlier. My dress rustles when I sit, a soft whisper over my thighs, and Jesse’s knee brushes mine—accidentally at first, then not.
Neither of us say much. We don’t need to. I can feel him looking at me in the passing glow of city lights, but I refuse to look back, because if I do, I’m not sure I’ll be able to look away.
By the time the driver pulls up to the hotel awning, my pulse is a riot. Jesse steps out first, offering me his hand as if we’re still in that ballroom, still pretending we’re a couple. But the second my palm touches his, it all feels real again. It all feels dangerous.
We step into the lobby, and I can feel the weight of the night press down on me. The champagne, the adrenaline, the small victories, and the tiny wounds my mother left me with. My heels click softly against the polished marble as we walk toward the elevators, Jesse a step behind me. I swear I can feel his eyes on me, watching the movement of my dress. The tension hums quietly between us like a current.
The hotel is dimly lit, warm, and elegant. Late-night guests drift past us, their voices low, but the world feels narrowed to just the two of us. My heart taps against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.
We stop at the elevator, and I press the button with a hand I hope isn’t visibly shaking. Jesse shifts beside me, sliding his hands into his pockets—a move that somehow makes him look even broader. Even more unfairly attractive. His jacket is slung over one arm, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves pushed to his forearms.
