His study smells of leather and bourbon. He pours us each a glass, then gestures to the shelves of books and framed city plans.
“You’ve got vision,” he says. “And I respect that. But tell me, what makes this project different from the others that have come and gone?”
I take the glass but don’t drink yet. “Because it’s not just about height or profit. It’s about creating something that outlasts us. A mark that says we were here, and we built something that mattered.”
He studies me over the rim of his glass. “You talk like a man who’s already made his mark.”
I smile faintly. “Maybe I have. But I’m not done yet.”
That earns a nod. “Confidence suits you, Calvin. I’ll look over the proposal again. You may hear from me soon.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
By the time we get back to the penthouse, it’s quiet. Abigail mutters something about needing a shower and disappears up the stairs.
I head for the kitchen, pour a glass of Hennessy, and let the city’s lights wash over me through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The burn of the drink settles in my chest.
Then I feel it, a shift in the air. Soft footsteps, the faint rustle of fabric.
Blair.
She steps softly into view, hair up in a messy bun, an oversized T-shirt hanging off her frame. It’s clearly not hers, a man’s shirt, and it should mean nothing, but I somehow feel the need to walk to her and rip the shirt from her body. It’s irrational, and honestly worrisome, that I’m having such a visceral reaction to a simple piece of fabric.
I set my glass down, leaning lightly against the counter. “The fridge is all yours.”
Her neck catches my attention, the column of it delicate and pale. Her long legs shift slightly as she reaches into the fridge, just enough to make the shirt cling and hint at curves I shouldn’t notice. A faint impression of nipples presses through the cotton. My stomach twists, and my dick decides it wants to make an appearance.Fuck no, you fuck.
She hasn’t noticed, or maybe she has. Her cheeks are pinker than before, her gaze darting nervously to the floor. I try to keep my expression neutral, but inside I’m a storm. Forbidden, wrong, impossible, but damn if I’m not mesmerized.
“Uh… how was dinner?” she asks.
I clear my throat, forcing calm into my tone. “It went well. Better than expected.” My eyes flick to hers, catching that slight flutter of lashes, the way she’s unaware of the effect she has.
“Abby told me it was an important dinner, so I’m glad it went well,” she says in a low lingering voice. She toys with the rim of her glass, fingertip gliding in slow, lazy circles. The motion shouldn’t be distracting, but it is.
The light catches her just right, her hair loose, mouth faintly glossed, skin soft and flushed. I should look away. I don’t.
She lifts her gaze, catching me staring, and that flush deepens and spreads down her neck.
My body reacts before my mind can reason with it. A tight pull in my chest. Heat under my skin, dangerous and unwelcome. My jaw tightens. There’s something reckless about her. Something I shouldn’t want to touch but do anyway.
And it makes no sense. Not to me. Not with her.
I drag my eyes up from her mouth to her eyes and just… study her, try to understand why I react the way I do around her.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, soft but direct.
I should answer. I don’t. Instead, I tip the glass back, finishing what’s left of my drink. The Hennessy hits my throat, hot, grounding.
When I lower it, I’m already walking away. “Good night, Blair.”
Her brows pull together, confusion flickering across her face. “Uhh… O-okay, good night.”
I keep walking, every step an effort not to look back.
Because I know exactly what I’d find if I did: those eyes, that mouth, that temptation I have no business wanting.
“Wait, I thought you wanted something simple,” I say, starting to feel a little frustrated as I look over at Abigail. We’ve been sitting here for almost an hour, and what started as a request for a plain, uncomplicated white dress has evolved into a detailed, complicated dress.
