Page 56 of Mister St. James

“I don’t hate them,” he says. “I hate inefficiency.”

“That cactus will outlive us both.” I take a sip, savor the burn. “You should thank me. It’s the only thing in this apartment more resilient than your NDA policy.”

He almost smiles. “The NDA is a kindness. You’d be astonished at the average person’s password hygiene.”

“I have a stronger password than you,” I say. “But you already know that.”

He raises a brow, then shifts the conversation. “I’ve been thinking about the new project launch. There’s a PDI regional conference in Munich next March, two weeks, high visibility. They want you to run point on the trade demos.”

I play with the rim of the whiskey glass. “So you want me to play arm-candy on another continent.”

“I want you to play whatever role you choose. But yes, I’ve already blocked your travel.”

It’s not a question, or a command. It’s just a given. I run a hand through my hair, loose now, the curls frizzing out after hours of knots and sweat and aftercare.

“You’re sure about that,” I say, quiet.

He leans in, voice lower. “I’m sure about you.”

For a half-second, I want to believe this is seduction or manipulation or just another negotiation. It’s safer to pretend everything is a game. But he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing he trusts to exist in the morning.

I distract myself by padding down the hall, whiskey in hand, to the bedroom. It’s as minimalist as the rest of him—charcoal sheets, the faint scent of his soap, and not a single personal artifact except what I’ve left behind. I add my novel to the nightstand stack, right on top, a battered paperback with my initials in the front cover. It looks just as intimate as leaving lipstick on a collar.

Aiden is in the doorway, watching me with that analytical half-smirk.

“I reorganized your closet,” I say.

“You didn’t.”

“I did. You own exactly seven identical suits. That’s serial killer math.”

He ignores the bait, steps into the room, and stands behind me, close but not touching. “You left your shoes here last time.”

I turn, crossing my arms, heart going a little berserk in my chest. “Is that a problem?”

“I prefer it,” he says.

There’s a silence, but it’s not awkward.

I down the rest of my whiskey and crawl onto his bed, burrowing under the sheets like I own the place. I do, for tonight. He strips off his shirt, folds it with the precision of a man who only knows order as a form of prayer, and joins me. We lie on our backs, staring up at the ceiling, not touching.

After a while, I say, “Are you always this forward-thinking, or is this just your brand of foreplay?”

He’s quiet, then, “I don’t know what you want.”

It knocks the wind out of me, how raw he sounds. Like it costs him something to say it.

I think about the club, about the eyes on us, about how it felt to watch myself come undone in the mirror and know it was exactly what I’d chosen. I think about the office, and the red rope, and the coffee in the morning, and how every rumor about us is both completely right and so desperately, stupidly wrong.

What I want is this. I want the long game. I want someone to remember which book I was reading three months ago, to save me a seat at the conference table, to bring me coffee even when they’re furious at me. I want to be so wanted that it stops being a liability.

I turn on my side, propped up on my elbow. “I want in,” I say.

He faces me, wary, like he’s expecting a punchline.

“I mean it,” I say. “Whatever this is. I want in.”

He breathes out, slow and shallow, and his hand finds mine under the sheet. It’s awkward at first, the way we fit together, two people who’ve spent a lifetime refusing to depend on anyone else. But we do. We fit.