The memories settle between us like a peace offering. Both of us lost in a different time, where everything felt simple.
“You remind me of that,” he says. “Of why I started.”
I look down at our hands, pinkies barely brushing. Wordlessly, I turn my hand over and slide my fingers under his palm until our hands fit together. He doesn’t wait a fraction ofa second before closing his fingers around mine, drawing my knuckles to his lips and kissing them gently.
The gesture warms something low in my belly, remembering all the places his lips have pressed against my skin. His eyes meet mine, and I wonder if he’s thinking something similar when they crinkle at the sides, his smile growing.
“I don’t care who your father is and I don’t care about money.” I clear my throat, needing him to hear my words for what they are. “I care that you tell me the truth. Even when it makes you look bad. Especially then.”
“You have my word.”
We sit in silence with our fingers twined together. The pad of his thumb traces patterns across the back of my hand. His gaze stays locked on the movement, like he’s memorizing every sensation before leaning over and pressing his lips to my forehead.
“You know, you were a real jerk in the beginning,” I say, pulling back to look up into his face.
“I was.” He admits freely, a smirk tilting his lips.
“And pretty rude, actually.”
“That sounds like me.”
His eyes sparkle in the low light as I stand and pad to the kitchen, grabbing the bottle of wine I keep hidden in the pantry. If Kara has taught me anything, it’s to always have a secret stash on hand.
I glance over my shoulder, reaching into the cabinet for glasses. “If your dad was basically paying for a golden boy image in the edit, I deserve retro-pay for tolerating you when everyone else steered clear of your grumpy war path.”
He barks a real laugh at that. “I’ll talk to accounting.”
The tension eases another notch as I set two glasses on the counter, uncorking the wine and facing him fully.
“I don’t know how to do this.” He pauses. “I don’t know how to fix things like this. How do I prove to you that I don’t give a damn about this show? That the only thing I care about is you. Say the word, and I’ll drop out of the competition tomorrow if that’s what it takes.”
My brain stutters at his offer. “You’ll what?”
“I’ll throw it. I’ll go home.”
His eyes search mine, earnest and full of sincerity.
The thought of him leaving for Vancouver twists my chest, a tight coil of longing for someone who isn’t gone yet.
“Don’t you even think about it,” I whisper, sliding a glass of wine across the counter toward him.
“If I want to be the best, I have to beat the best.”
He nods, sipping his wine. “You’re on.”
Hours later, after Alex texts a disgruntled Joe that he can head back without him and we’ve eaten our weight in Chinese takeout, Alex stands in my kitchen with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, rinsing the dishes in my sink.
I can’t help watching the way his arms flex, heat pooling between my thighs.
He catches me staring, brows lifting. He smirks my way, but there’s no bite to it—just the easy confidence of a man who knows exactly how attractive he is.
I lift my wineglass for another sip.
This calm, domestic version of my grumpy storm cloud is a close second to the sight of him on his knees, blushing.
By Friday afternoon, my apartment smells like expensive espresso and the cinnamon rolls Alex insisted on baking before my shift as a peace offering for Kara, an attempt to win her over onto his side.
Little does he know, she was always on his side.
