I blink in disbelief. Apparently, my mouth has a mind of its own.
There’s a pause. He looks at me, searching my face, as if he’s weighing the risk. And then he grins. His eyelashes flutter in the low light. The reflection off his glasses catches the candle flame between us, like he’s holding fire in his gaze.
It’s ridiculous how warm I feel. Gods, I’ve negotiated multi-million-dollar contracts with less pressure than this. But then Jamie Torres replies.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
And just like that, I know I’m in the best kind of trouble.
9
I’LL TOAST TO THAT
JAMIE
Back at Magnus’s penthouse,I feel like I’ve stepped into another world. One where people don’t brown bag peanut butter and fluff sandwiches and have resorted to naming the roaches infesting their studio apartments. His loft has enormous floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the living room, showing the city lights sparkling below like a scattering of diamonds. Hardwood floors gleam under soft recessed lighting. Minimalistic furniture but warm in some intangible way—sleek leather chairs, a low coffee table, a rug soft enough to sink toes—or hooves—into. Every corner is meticulously arranged. This is Magnus: controlled, powerful, and impossibly alluring, but somehow, in this space, approachable.
I spot a cluster of folded paper figures—little animals lined up neatly on a side table. Beside them sits an organizer filled with brightly colored squares.
“Is that… origami?”
Magnus looks over at me and tugs at the collar of his shirt. “Yeah. Helps me relax. Keeps my fingers limber.”
“The softer side of Mr. Trainor.”
He shrugs. “It’s… calming. Helps keep the stress from… spilling out.”
My chest tightens. There’s something achingly delicate in that confession, something I didn’t expect from a guy who could crush me with one arm if he wanted to.
I take a step closer. “Can I… see?”
He hesitates then takes a small, delicate frog from the collection, holding it out. I run my finger along the green paper, soft under my touch. “You made this?”
He nods. “Yeah. It’s like therapy. Back in college, I started folding origami, and it taught me something important—how to take something ordinary and transform it into something surprising, delicate, and strong all at once. It kept me focused… and, well, helped me stop breaking things I shouldn’t.” His eyes flick up to mine. The faint smile, the tilt of his head—it’s soft, yet my stomach flutters like I’ve just been punched in the gut.
“Well, it’s beautiful,” I say, brushing against his arm accidentally—or maybe not so accidentally. His tail flicks out and swats my leg, and he’s making not kissing him really difficult.
As we talk about origami, stress, and the absurdity of corporate life, the week’s tension begins to melt away.When I pull my legs under me on the sofa, I glance at him and realize he’s watching me in a way that makes my chest swell. My thoughts wander, and I catch myself imagining more than just conversation. His tongue. His cock. But he was clear with me.Keep it professional.
“So, do you always make little animals?” I ask, nodding toward the paper menagerie.
But before he can answer, his stomach growls—loud and deep, like it’s echoing in his chest. My whole body jumps in surprise. But then, a huge laugh escapes my mouth.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, biting at his lower lip in a way that should not be that cute on someone so solid.
“Still hungry?”
“Always,” he says, patting his stomach. “Big guy, big appetite. I’ve got some bread and honey in the kitchen.” He’s up, hooves clicking on the tile. “Toast’s my favorite late night snack. Want some?”
My heart does this little flutter at the idea of him having a favorite bedtime treat. “I’m not really hungry,” I say, with a shrug.
“Suit yourself,” he murmurs, already moving toward the counter. He pulls out thick slices of bread and a jar of golden honey. The scent of warm toast fills the loft, and I watch his capable hands handle everything so carefully—like he’s making something important instead of just a snack.
When he sits back down with a plate, the toast glistening under the honey, I grin. “You’re telling me a big,important CEO winds down at night with honey on toast? That’s adorable.”
He lifts a brow. “It’s delicious. And it keeps me strong.” He flexes an arm, his shirt screaming under the fabric. “You want to tell me that’s not sexy?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Okay, fine. It’s… sexy-adjacent.”
