“You’re staring,” he says without turning his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Just returning the favor,” I reply, not bothering to deny it. Something about tonight feels different, like we’ve stepped outside our usual roles into a space where different rules apply. “So, tell me about Axel.”
Aaron’s expression softens with affection. “Axel is an enigma to say the least, and he is my older brother from Horizon House.”
“Horizon House?”
“The orphanage we grew up in,” he explains.
“Oh.” I nod. “You don’t need to go into further detail. I remember I told you our personal lives are off limits.”
“Unlike you, I don’t mind sharing.”
“I hope you don’t expect me to share after you?—”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
As we glide through Manhattan traffic, Aaron’s voice fills the space between us, painting pictures of his childhood with Grayson and Axel. His eyes soften when he mentions their names, his hands animated as he describes their escapades. When he casually mentions being chased by a neighbor’s Rottweiler, he visibly tenses, fingers curling slightly into his palm. Later, he drops it so casually—‘after my engagement ended’—then glances at me sideways, waiting for the question I refuse to ask. I keep my expression neutral, nodding at appropriate intervals while maintaining the careful distance between our bodies on the leather seat. I’ve spent years building walls around client confidentiality. These personal revelations of his are just another type of information to file away and never access again.
When we arrived at The Beaufort Hotel, I’m taken aback by how over the top this launch would be. Why are there so many photographers out front?
“I didn’t know launch parties are this extravagant,” I murmur, still looking out the window.
“Usually, Axel keeps it lowkey, but his new event planner is really over the top.”
“I’ll say.” I look back at him.
“You don’t mind taking any pictures, do you?”
“As long as these pictures don’t circulate in any magazines, I guess we can take a few photos.”
“Just a few photos to commemorate the occasion.” Aaron assures me with a smile that somehow makes me believe him. “Nothing that will end up in the society pages.”
The car pulls to a stop at the curb, and I take a deep breath as the driver opens the door. Aaron slides out first, then extends his hand to help me. I hesitate for just a second before taking it, feeling the warmth of his palm against mine.
The moment my heels hit the pavement, I’m overwhelmed by the sensory assault. Camera flashes pop like miniature lightning strikes, the buzz of conversation, the imposing façade of The Beaufort rising above us. I instinctively move closer to Aaron, my shoulder brushing against his arm.
“You, okay?” he asks softly, his breath warm against my ear.
“Fine.”
Aaron offers his arm, and I take it, partly for stability in these heels and partly because it feels right. The cameras flash as we make our way toward the entrance, and I’m suddenly grateful for all the time I spent on my appearance tonight. His hand covers mine where it rests in the crook of his elbow, his thumb brushing lightly across my back.
“You’re a natural,” he whispers, his lips close to my ear as we pose briefly. The warmth of his breath sends yet another shiver down my spine.
“Years of appearing composed in front of hostile opposing counsel,” I reply, maintaining my smile for the photographers. “Though I’m seriously reconsidering putting on these heels tonight.”
Aaron guides us swiftly through the hotel’s entrance. “You know all you have to do is say ‘carry me’ and I will.”
“I just might take you up on that after a few hours in these,” I say with a small laugh, then immediately wonder if it was too flirtatious.
Marble and crystal dominate The Beaufort’s lobby, the vaulted ceilings dwarfing even the most statuesque guests in their finery. We weave through the crowd, and I can’t help but notice the subtle double-takes Aaron receives. Heads turn, recognition dawns, and several people acknowledge him with slight nods that he returns without breaking stride.
“Popular guy,” I murmur.
“Occupational hazard,” he replies with a self-deprecating smile as we head toward the elevator. “Romance authors are surprisingly recognizable in certain circles.”
As the elevator carries us upward in silence I see Aaron’s reflection in the mirrored walls, his eyes trace over my naked legs.
