"—it ran," she says the same time as me.
She grins at me. I allow myself a small chuckle. Our gazes meet, and just like that, the air between us heats.
50
Harper
Sparks seem to sizzle when our eyes connect. Little shivers of anticipation squeeze my chest. My pulse flutters like the wings of a bee. My throat is so dry, I need to take another sip of the wine to soothe it. The liquid slides down smoothly and sets off a tingle of fire in my belly. Yeah, it’s the alcohol that’s making my head spin and my fingers feel numb. It’s the alcohol that makes my hands tremble. Enough for me carefully to set down my glass.
This…intimacy of a shared drink after work and exchanging views on what happened in the restaurant feels dangerously close to us having a relationship.
He’s still the distant, cold, demanding boss at work. But something in him has softened toward me. I feel it in how his fingers often brush mine at work. How I’ve caught him looking at me during the day with a look I can only describe as…possessive?
My heart zings in my chest. A throbbing heat fills the space between my thighs. I swallow. Nope, not going to throw myself at him…again. Only to be rebuffed. Again.
He’s made it clear that he needs time to think things through. And I need to respect that. I need to treat it as a breather. Use the time to keep my wits about myself. Try to stop myself from falling for him further. Ha, like that’s going to be possible.
The way warmth fills my chest when he compliments me shows how much his praise means to me. I’m already lost in my feelings for him. His praise doesn’t just make me feel appreciated. It makes me feel seen. Valued. Like I matter to him in a way that has to do with more than perfect knife cuts or mise en place, et cetera.
I tell myself it's professional. That I admire his expertise. That he's a big influence in my career, and of course, his approval means something.
But that's a lie.
It's not his Michelin stars or being the chef of his new restaurant that I crave. It's the way his voice drops when he says my name. The way his gaze lingers a fraction too long. The way he looks at me like I'm the only thing in the room that isn't a disappointment.
My feelings aren't just caught up in this; they're drowning in it. Professional, personal, and physical. It's all one tangled, suffocating knot I can't untie.
And the worst part? I don't want to.
Which is a sign that I need to continue to keep the space he’s established between us at home. At least, until he’s ready to make what's between us into something more. Or else, I’m in the danger of being caught in a marriage that is real to me…and not so much to him.
I slide off the barstool. "Anyway, thanks for the vote of confidence. I'm gonna hit the sack. G'night."
I walk out, head high, spine straight, very aware that he’s watching my retreat. Feeling like a coward…but also, knowing this is the right thing to do as a means of self-preservation. And hoping he’ll stop me. But he doesn’t. I make it all the way to my room before I close the door and flatten myself against it.
He could have called out to stop me. He could have told me he was beginning to have feelings for me too. He’s implied it, but really, I want to hear it from him. To feel his lips on mine showing how much he wants me. His arms around me, holding me close against that massive chest. I want it so much; I can literally feel his heartbeat against mine. Thump-Thump-Thump.
I’m sure I hear the sound of my heart thumping against my rib cage. Then I realize, there’s someone knocking on the door.
I spin around and open it. And he’s there. Filling the doorway with his shoulders, his larger-than-life presence, his big frame which dwarfs mine and makes me feel delicate and protected. Our gazes meet. His blue eyes flash. There’s lust, need…and something else I can’t identify.
He holds out a glass of wine. "You left this behind."
"Oh." I take it from him.
Our fingers don’t brush against each other, leaving me relieved. And disappointed.
"Thank you."
"You’re welcome." He stays rooted to where he’s standing, and so do I. Both of us seem reluctant to leave. He continues to stare at me; his gaze filled with so many unsaid emotions. The air grows thick; my blood feels syrupy. My limbs begin to feel heavy with the weight of whatever this is between us.
And if he stands here any longer, I’ll do something regretful, like climb him and ask him to fuck me.
I clear my throat. "Was there something else?"
He blinks as if coming out of a trance, composing his features into that mask he prefers to wear at work. Only now that I’ve seen past it, I’ll never be content with anything but seeing the real man.
"We need to plan that public outing, so my investors are satisfied." He drags his fingers through his hair, so the strands stand on end. It’s rare to see him disheveled, but with the dark circles around his eyes and the hollows under his cheekbones, he looks as beat as I feel.
