Malcolm’s eyes open. The intense, brooding CEO vanishes, replaced by the man who meticulously planned my office logistics.
"There is a kitchen in the back," he says, gesturing toward the far end of the loft. "It is fully stocked. Grant ensures the safe houses are provisioned for extended stays."
"Does fully stocked mean actual food, or just military rations and bottled water?"
"There is pasta," he offers, a genuine, albeit faint, smile appearing.
"I can work with pasta."
I walk toward the back of the loft. The kitchen is utilitarian—stainless steel counters, an industrial stove, and a massive refrigerator. It lacks the sterile luxury of the penthouse, but it feels infinitely more functional.
I open the cabinets, finding a box of linguine and a jar of marinara sauce. It’s basic, but right now, it looks like a Michelin-star meal.
Malcolm walks into the kitchen a few minutes later. He has taken off the wrinkled suit jacket and the tie, leaving him in justthe white dress shirt and trousers. He looks tired, but the rigid tension in his shoulders has loosened.
He leans against the counter, watching me boil water.
"You don't have to cook," he says. "I can order something."
"To an off-the-grid safe house?" I raise an eyebrow, dropping the pasta into the pot. "I don't think Uber Eats delivers to unmarked bunkers."
"Grant could pick something up."
"Grant is currently standing outside in the freezing cold making sure your father’s goons don't murder us. Let the man do his job." I grab a wooden spoon, stirring the pasta. "Besides, I like cooking. It gives my brain something to do that doesn't involve calculating prison sentences."
Malcolm doesn't argue. He watches me move around the small kitchen, his dark eyes tracking my every movement. It isn't the calculating, predatory stare from the hotel bar. It is something deeper. He is watching me like he is trying to memorize the exact way I hold the spoon.
I finish cooking the pasta, mixing it with the sauce, and divide it into two bowls. I hand one to Malcolm, grabbing two forks from the drawer.
We eat standing at the stainless steel counter.
It is the most mundane, ordinary thing we have done since we met. There are no cameras. There is no contract. There is no impending gala. It is just the two of us, eating cheap pasta in a warehouse, waiting for the world to end.
"It’s good," Malcolm says, setting his empty bowl down.
"It’s jarred sauce," I point out, taking a sip of water. "You’re just starving."
"I am," he admits.
He reaches across the counter, his hand wrapping around my waist. He pulls me toward him, stepping into my space. The sudden physical proximity makes my breath catch.
"Malcolm," I murmur, my hands resting flat against his chest.
"The files won't hit the news until noon tomorrow," he says, his voice dropping to a low, rough whisper. "Preston won't make a move until he realizes he is exposed."
"Okay."
"Which means we have twelve hours." He slides his hand up my back, his fingers tangling in the loose waves of my hair. "Twelve hours where the rest of the world does not exist."
He kisses me.
It is slow, deliberate, and completely consuming. I lean into him, my hands sliding up to grip his shoulders. The taste of the pasta and the sharp bite of his coffee from earlier mix together.
He lifts me effortlessly, setting me on the edge of the stainless steel counter. He steps between my legs, his body pressing flush against mine. The cold metal of the counter contrasts sharply with the absolute heat radiating from him.
"Twelve hours," I whisper against his mouth, my hands sliding down to unbutton his shirt.
"Twelve hours," he confirms.
