I force myself to walk away, to push through the hostel's door without looking back. But I feel his gaze on me until the door swings shut, separating us.
Once I’m in my tiny room, I drop my bag and collapse onto the narrow bed, my heart racing.
What the hell just happened?
And what the hell am I going to do tonight when I see him again?
Chapter 2
Emma
The hostel is totally fine. Perfectly adequate for what I need. It’s not the Portrait but… whatever.
I drop my bag, splash water on my face, and stare at myself in the tiny mirror above the sink. My cheeks are flushed. I look like someone who just spent nine hours sitting next to a man she shouldn't be thinking about the way I'm thinking about Grant Cross.
My phone buzzes.
Grant:Dinner at 7?
My heart jumps. I should say no. I should tell him I'm busy, that I'm here to work, that whatever happened on that plane was just proximity and recycled air and sleep deprivation.
Me:Sounds good.
I press send before I can overthink it.
The day passes in a blur. I meet Daniela at her small laboratory on the outskirts of the city—a converted farmhouse surrounded by lavender fields. She's in her sixties, with silver hair pulled back in a neat bun and hands that move with the precision of a surgeon as she demonstrates her distillation process. I take notes frantically, inhale every scent she offers, ask a thousand questions. This is what I came for. This is my future.
But underneath it all, humming through my veins like an electrical current, is the anticipation of seeing him again.
By the time I get back to the hostel that evening, I'm exhausted and wired all at once. I shower, change into a simple black dress—one of the only nice things I packed—and wait.
At 6:58, my phone buzzes.
Grant:I'm outside.
I grab my bag and head down, my pulse hammering.
The Audi is parked at the curb, and Grant is leaning against it, hands in his pockets. He's wearing dark slacks and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. The setting sun catches in his hair, and when he sees me, his entire face transforms.
"Hi," I say, suddenly shy.
"Hi." His eyes move over me slowly, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. "You look beautiful."
Heat floods my cheeks. "Thanks. You look—" I gesture vaguely at him, words failing.Like everything I shouldn't want.
His mouth quirks. "I clean up okay."
The driver opens the door, and I slide in. Grant follows, and suddenly we're in that intimate cocoon again, the city moving past the windows in a wash of golden light.
"How was your day?" he asks.
"Incredible. Daniela is a genius. She showed me her entire process, from harvesting to distillation to aging." I realize I'm gushing and forcing myself to slow down. "What about you? How was your meeting?"
"Productive. The building is even better than the photos suggested. But—" He shifts, and his knee brushes mine. Neither of us moves away. "I kept thinking about you. Wondering how you were doing, if you were getting what you needed from Daniela."
The confession steals my breath. "Grant?—"
"I know," he says quietly. "I know this is complicated. But I can't seem to stop."
