“We’re not far from South Bank.” He chuckles. “I’ll putit this way—When the weather’s decent, I can walk to work from my flat.”
We climb the stairs and step out onto a quiet street lined with narrow brick row houses and converted warehouses. Ivy climbs their facades, and streetlamps cast warm amber pools across the pavement. Somewhere nearby, the Thames laps gently against the embankment.
Theo slows in front of a slate-gray building with tall windows and cast-iron railings. He digs out his keys. “This is me,” he says, pushing open the front door.
Here it is—the moment of truth. Is Theo a clinical minimalist, or is he a secret hoarder? I’ve caught glimpses of his place during our video calls, but a laptop camera is a master of deception—you can hide a lot of chaos just out of frame.
The door opens and I have my answer—it’s somewhere in between. The furnishings are simple. There’s the familiar charcoal sofa with a worn-looking throw blanket tossed over the arm. A low wooden coffee table holds an open notebook, two pens, and a half-finished mug of tea that looks like it’s been abandoned for days.
To the right, a wall of built-in bookshelves stretches toward the ceiling. I wander over, unable to resist running my fingers over the spines—it’s like getting a direct map of how Theo’s mind works.
The shelves are a curated chaos of engineering manuals, vintage ride-design catalogs, and a small but impressive row of vinyl records arranged with alphabetical precision. Tucked in front of the books are a few intricate scale models of coasters Theo has worked on.
He lets me snoop, leaning against the door frame and watching me with a look of amusement.
“Your curtains are always closed. Let’s see how bad yourview is.” I drift toward the window and sweep aside part of the curtain. “Theo!” I glance over my shoulder. “You’ve been holding out on me!”
Beyond the glass, there’s a series of orange streetlight halos and boats drifting along the Thames, the ghostly silhouette of Tower Bridge in the distance. “Why do you hide this? Are you part vampire? Is the light too delicate for your complexion?”
“It’s purely a public service for the neighbors,” he says, leaning against the kitchen counter with a dry smirk. “Nobody needs to see me wandering about at two a.m., eating Shreddies and pacing while I take calls in my pants.”
I groan and let the heavy fabric fall back into place. Great. Now I’m cursed withthatmental image.
It’s not a bad thing. It’s a perfect image, honestly—Theo, with his hair messy from sleep, pacing this living room in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. I can imagine the way the light from the Thames would catch the lean muscles of his back and that focused, slightly grumpy look he has before his first coffee of the day. I just may not be able to think clearly whenever I see him for the next few weeks.
“Then why buy a place withfloor-to-ceiling windowsand apostcard view? When my friend bought her flat, it cost three-quarters of a million pounds and she got a closet with an oven.”
“You’re quite cute when you’re flustered. Your neck and ears go a very light, almost cherry-blossom shade of pink, just like mine do.” Theo laughs, the sound low and warm. “And for the record, I’m not actually a local attraction. I’m a ‘fully dressed before the kettle’s boiled’ sort of man. I bought the place because I liked the location,” he says simply.
Nice try, Theo, I think, barely suppressing a grin.But my brain has already greenlit the director’s cut of your morning routine, and it definitely doesn’t feature a three-piece suit.
He rubs the back of his head and nudges his chin toward the sofa. “Do you want to sit?”
“Okay,” I say, not entirely sure what happens now.
After dinner, there was chocolate cake and an embarrassing about of kissing. My entire body goes toasty just thinking about it. We didn’t exactly map out a phase two for the evening. I probably should’ve gone back to the hotel. Instead, I followed him here.
Theo collapses beside me on the couch. He’s close, but we’re not quite touching. He’s giving me space to choose what to do, which only makes me more attracted to this man.
“I think we should probably talk about us,” he says, his voice losing its teasing edge and dropping into something lower, more serious.
“Right. Us.” I shift a little closer, my knee brushing his. “I mean, we’ve pretty much established that we’re fans of each other. So I suppose the next logical step is more of this? More dates? Maybe even a label?”
“I rather fancy being called your boyfriend over ‘partner,’ if you don’t mind,” he says. The word “boyfriend” sounds swoon-worthy in his accent. “It’s got a bit more of a ring to it, hasn’t it?”
I try to lean over and rest my head on his shoulder in a classic romantic move. But I completely misjudge the distance and end up face-planting into his sternum instead.Smooth, Kaori. Really sweeping him off his feet.
A low laugh rumbles through his chest as he adjusts, looping a heavy arm around me and pulling me flushagainst his side so I’m tucked under his chin. “We need more practice with this.”
“You don’t. I do,” I mumble into the fabric of his shirt. My face sears as I finally find a comfortable spot. I stay there for a moment, listening to the steady thrum of his heart. “Is this going to be a problem at the office?” I ask carefully. “Since, you know... you’re the one running the show.”
“Only if we handle it poorly.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we tell HR before the office gossip mill beats us to it,” he says, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic line over my shoulder. “Technically, you don’t report to me. You’re Anya’s charge. But I’m still senior enough that it’ll look messy.”
He shifts slightly, his tone turning thoughtful. “HR will likely want me off any project you’re assigned to, at least formally. If that means I have to step back from reviews and sign-offs so someone else can take point, I’ll do it. It’s a bit of a ball ache for the schedule, but it’s well worth the trouble.”
