“I was angry, not hurt,” she lied.
He dipped his head. “I’m sorry.”
He was literally on his knees. The power was in her hands. She could destroy him quickly and send him on his way.
She leaned her head back and thought of the trouble he had gone through to apologize to her, without belittling her feelings or making her out to be the villain. Perhaps it was the sincerity in his voice, or the novelty of such a simple, uncomplicated apology, she could practically envision the tenterhooks of rage releasing their grip on her heart. The rage, but not the bitterness.
“What do you want from me? My forgiveness? Absolution? Because you’re talking about years of being made to feel like…nothing.” Only Jacob and her mother had had the power to make her feel like shit. To make her care what they thought of her.
He flinched. “I want a chance to earn your forgiveness. Make it up to you.”
“With flowers and food?”
“It’s a start.” He came to his feet and turned to the desk, opening the closest container. The scent of cashews and chicken wafted out to her, making her stomach grumble.
“Why do you care?” she asked, confused. “We could easily never see each other again.”
He opened another container. “Because I don’t like that option,” he said gruffly.
Akira’s hair was pulled back today, the black silk tucked neatly in a low bun. On another woman, perhaps the style would only convey professionalism, but the low hum of energy strumming beneath her surface made that an impossibility.
He wanted Akira. Still, always.
Her forgiveness, yes. His words weren’t a farce, a lie meant to win points.
But he couldn’t help the urge to kiss those full lips, bury himself inside her softness. Again, not her problem. It was his struggle to manage.
He inhaled, suddenly certain his next words would decide the fate of all their future interactions. He needed to make it good, so he ignored his aching dick, cleared his throat, and extended his hand.
“My name’s Jacob Campbell. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Akira’s fine lashes fluttered, and for a painful moment, he wondered if she would leave his hand hanging in midair. But no, she accepted it, her smaller palm fitting in his as if it had been made to rest there. “Akira Mori.”
Something animalistic inside him stretched toward her rough voice. He wanted it to curl around him, keep him calm. For the first time ever, he allowed the pleasure he experienced from her touch to rush over him. It was so much better when he wasn’t filtering it through a haze of shame and self-denial.
“Akira,” he repeated, his voice gone husky. The pulse at the base of her throat increased.
She studied him for so long, a trickle of sweat gathered at his hairline. She was judging him, weighing his words. Her fingers toyed with the rose he had clipped from his small courtyard garden to deliver his message. The flower had practically screamed Akira’s name, it was so lush and fragrant.
She followed his gaze. “I like this rose.”
“I’ll bring you more.” Too hasty, that promise. He would promise her everything, a garden of flowers.
Danger, danger.
He slammed his internal warning system into submission. No more, damn it. He was a grown man, and he needed to start acting like it.
“Honestly,” she finally said. “Once someone goes on my shitlist, they usually stay there forever.”
As he’d said, not an option. He glanced away, his brain scrambling. His gaze caught on the puzzle box he had delivered last week. It sat on the corner of her desk.
He cocked his head in the direction of the box. “May I?”
Confusion knit her brows together, but she nodded.
He picked up the box and weighed it in his hand. “I did some research on these after I returned this to you. It’s like an old-fashioned lockbox, right?” He touched a panel. It moved slightly. Fascinated, he slid it back and forth. “You have to manipulate those panels in a certain order, each one unlocking the next. Make one wrong move, and the box remains closed.” He’d watched a video on YouTube of a man taking one apart.
“Yeah.”
