“Like what, Mr.Holt?” I dropped my voice into a low purr.
“Emma,” he warned, the flush climbing higher, blooming across his skin. “I’m trying to be good here.”
My own blush warmed its way down my collarbone, the implication landing heavy and alive between us. I rolled my eyes with an exaggerated sigh. “Fine.”
He stepped forward, pressed a simple kiss to my forehead, and slipped an arm around my waist, guiding me through his home.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we passed the couch.
“You liked the terrace last time,” he said, a mysterious grin tugging at his mouth. “I thought we could do something similar tonight.”
I narrowed my eyes, even as my pulse fluttered with anticipation.
He swung open the glass door and ushered me back under the fairy lights. But there was no table this time. Instead, a low mattress waited—blanketed, piled with pillows, a bottle of wine and a dessert platter arranged beside it like an afterthought.
“Really? A pajama party and a mattress on the patio?”
“That isn’t—” he stammered, dragging a hand along his jaw as he took in the setup. “Okay, I can see why you’d assume that.”
“Assume?” I balked.
“Yes, assume,” he shot back. “Tonight was supposed to be fun. Wine, chocolate, a movie.” He pointed a finger at me, accusatory and dramatic. “And now you’ve perverted my mind. Tainted it with improper thoughts.”
I leveled him with a halfhearted glare, even as something low inside me tightened. “I’m not the one wearing—” I gave him a pointed once-over. “Forbidden gray sweatpants.”
“Oh, right,” he said dryly, his attention drifting over me in a deliberate pass. “Because you stroll in here looking like that”—he gestured lightly toward the dip of satin at my neckline—”and I’m the one with insidious intentions?”
The joke landed.
But the echo didn’t come.
I waited—instinctively—for my father’s voice to cut through the moment. The accusations. The insults. The sharp, familiar sting I’d braced myself for most of my life.
Nothing.
The silence held, cushioned by the protection Damien had built around us—inch by inch, gesture by gesture. The same structure he’d nearly torn down. The same one he’d spent every breath since repairing.
It was the only reason my head was clear enough to joke at all tonight, in the wake of Wednesday’s unwelcome news.
Our eyes locked, something unspoken threading between us—an understanding of where we stood now, of the fragile but steady ground we were choosing beneath our feet.
A ground that now ached with a deeper, sweeter need.
“You’ll be the death of me, Ms.Sinclair,” he said through his teeth as he stepped back, guiding me farther onto the terrace.
The mattress was plush, pillows piled everywhere, not a sharp edge in sight. On the building façade, a projector cast a glowing movie title across the wall:NOW YOU SEE ME
I folded into the pillows, tugging one into my lap. “What’s it about?”
“It’s a thriller,” he said, settling beside me with an almost sheepish shrug. “Four magicians hired by some rich guy to pull off illusions that are really high-level burglaries. Like I said, I had innocent intentions.”
I arched a brow, lips curving. “Please. You know I love crime.”
“Only elegant ones,” he quipped, catching the connection immediately.
It had been the first night we talked. The same night he’d messaged me on the dating app. Candace and I had eaten squid ink pasta and watched a documentary on an art heist. He’d downloaded Netflix just to watch it with us.
The beginning of something neither of us understood yet—something that would end up defining us.
