Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty Eight
Elsa
I sink into the couch like my body has finally decided it’s safe to exhale.
Full. Warm. Satisfied in a way that feels almost unfamiliar lately—like my nervous system doesn’t know what to do with “okay.”
Dinner was delicious. And the absurd part is that I helped make it.
I didn’t ruin the garlic. I didn’t ruin the pasta.
I didn’t set anything on fire. I can still feel the faint sting of pride under my ribs, like it’s trying to push its way out even though pride is not an emotion I typically indulge in.
Antonio is beside me, finishing his second plate, like this is completely normal behavior for a man who looks like he could be carved out of marble.
Both of his plates were at least twice the size of mine.
Twice.
I watch him take another bite, and my brain does that useless calculation again—where the hell does he put it?
There isn’t an extra pound on him anywhere.
Not an ounce. His shoulders are broad and solid, his arms are ropey with muscle even relaxed, and his waist stays narrow like his body is permanently braced for action.
My gaze drifts, uninvited, to the floor of my apartment.
The place where he was doing push-ups like gravity was merely a suggestion. The place where he started those glute bridges—slow, controlled, obscene—before my inbox lit up and everything went to hell.
He never finished his workout.
The thought slips in, quiet and wicked:
I could help him make up for it.
My pulse jumps. Heat blooms low in my belly like my body’s been waiting all day for permission.
No.
Rules, I remind myself.
Except… my rules already got blown to hell earlier when I panicked and he held me and breathed with me and put his hand on my chest like he could anchor me with touch alone.
But it didn’t count, did it?
It was a panic attack. It was survival. It was—
Antonio had said once a rule was broken, all bets were off.
And he’s been behaving himself.
Painfully.
He’s acted like my rules still matter. Like he’s still honoring them. Like he’s still being good.
And the most humiliating part is that I’m… disappointed.
I miss his arms.
I forgot how much I missed them until I was in them again, breathing against him, feeling his heat at my back like something that belonged there.
It’s been almost three weeks since that last time in the conference room—his mouth on mine, my tears on his shirt, my hands grabbing him like I couldn’t bear the distance even while I was creating it.
I want him so badly it’s almost physical pain. It’s in my chest, in my throat, in my thighs—an ache that feels like it’s clogging my lungs.
I told myself I wasn’t going to do this. There was a reason I broke it off.
What was that damn reason again?
Oh.
Right.
My professional reputation. My career. The fact that I can’t afford to be the woman who sleeps with the man on the other side of the deal.
Except it all seems so far away right now, sitting on my couch with my skin warm from food and wine and his presence, and my body humming like it doesn’t give a single damn about consequences.
Antonio sets his fork down and stacks his plate with mine without thinking, like it’s muscle memory. He shifts forward, readying himself to stand.
Before he can, I’m up.
Too fast. Too sudden. My knees hit the edge of the coffee table, and I don’t even feel it.
I step into his path—subtle enough to pretend it’s casual, direct enough that it isn’t.
“You don’t have to,” I say quickly.
His brows lift as he pauses, plates balanced in his hands. “Elsa—”
“I’ll take care of it,” I add, and my voice is steady even though the air between us feels like it’s sparking.
He looks down at the plates, then back up at me, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.
“You cooked,” he says simply. “I’ll clean.”
“We both cooked,” I argue, because I need something to argue about that isn’t the fact that I want to climb him like a tree. “And it’s my apartment.”
His gaze flicks over my face, lingering on my mouth like he’s remembering it. Like he’s thinking about the rules. Like he’s testing his own restraint.
Then he tilts his head.
“How about this,” he says, voice going low and smooth. “I’ll clean, and you find us something sweet for dessert.”
The words shouldn’t sound like a dare.
They do.
My breath catches, betraying me. I feel it in my chest, in the tiny pause before I answer.
“Okay,” I manage, and it comes out breathless.
Antonio’s eyes hold mine for a beat—too long, too heavy—then he steps around me without brushing my body on purpose.
It’s worse than if he did.
I turn toward the kitchen because if I keep standing here in the living room watching his shoulders move, I’m going to forget every rule I ever even considered holding him to.
He moves quietly, efficiently, sliding the plates into the sink, running water, wiping the counter like he’s done this a thousand times and isn’t at all aware that I’m unraveling behind him one thread at a time.
I open the fridge first, pretending I’m just a woman looking for dessert and not a woman looking for an excuse.
There’s a carton of strawberries tucked in the back—I asked Antonio to include them on the grocery list because, apparently, I’m pretending to be the kind of person who snacks on fruit instead of eating ice cream right out of the carton when he’s around.
I smile wickedly when I see the can of whipped cream.
My mind does a slow, sinful slide into possibility.
Berries. Whipped cream.
I shut the fridge a little too hard.
I pull out a colander and pour the strawberries into it.
“Could you rinse these?” I ask Antonio, setting it on the counter next to him.
“Sure,” he says, completely oblivious to the plan forming.
I open the cabinet and search all the way in the back, where I generally keep it so I’m not tempted to eat it by the spoonful.
My fingers close around the white lid, and I suppress my little dance of joy.
Nutella.
“Here you go,” Antonio says.
I turn back to grab the strawberries and see Antonio moving around my kitchen like he belongs here. Like he’s always belonged here.
He does.
The thought is so crazy, I almost forget how to breathe.
I clear my throat. “Do you have any allergies?” I call, aiming for casual.
He pauses, then his voice, low and amused. “No.”
“Good,” I say, and my tone comes out too smooth.
I dry the strawberries and arrange them on a plate. Then, using a spoon, I drizzle the Nutella over them.
I set the plate down on the island and pick up the whipped cream like it’s just… whipped cream.
It isn’t.
I feel Antonio’s attention shift before I even look up. The water in the sink is off, the dishes done. The towel in his hand stills for a beat, his eyes are on the plate, then on the can, then on me.
His throat works once.
“Dessert,” I say, voice light. Too light.
“Mmm,” he replies, and it’s not an answer so much as a sound. His gaze drifts to my mouth and lingers like he’s testing his own restraint.
I pop the cap off the whipped cream with a soft click that feels almost obscene in the quiet.
Antonio’s voice is a little rough. “You’re enjoying this.”
I lift a brow and tilt my head, feigning innocence. “Enjoying what?”
He sets the towel down slowly, like sudden movement might be dangerous. “Pretending you don’t know what you’re doing.”
Heat pricks under my skin. My pulse jumps in my throat. I keep my face composed anyway, because if I don’t, I’ll give away how badly I want him to cross the kitchen and put his hands on me.
I pick up a strawberry—Nutella pooling against the red in glossy, dark ribbons—then add a perfect little curl of whipped cream on top.
I hold it up between us, arm extended.
“You don’t like strawberries?” I ask, and my voice betrays me at the end—too soft, too breathy.
Antonio steps in, slowly. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t take the strawberry from my hand. He just leans down until his breath brushes my knuckles, and my skin goes tight everywhere at once.
Then he opens his mouth and bites the strawberry right off the end, lips grazing my fingertips. My knees practically melt, and I have to lean back against the counter or collapse to the floor.
He chews, eyes still on mine, and swallows like he’s making a point.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Very good.”
I set the green end back onto the plate, and instead of picking up another strawberry, I drag my finger through the Nutella.
When I turn my eyes back to his, the heat in them nearly makes me gasp.
“Is that for you or me?” he says, moving closer still.
“That would be against the rules,” I say, breathlessly.
His gaze drops to my finger, glossy with Nutella, then lifts back to my mouth.
“Hmm,” he says, and his voice is so deep, it’s practically just a rumble. “What rule exactly would that be? You didn’t say no tasting.”
I swallow, my back flat to the counter. “Th-That’s no touching.”
Antonio’s smile is slow and dangerous. “Ah-ha,” he says, just like he did when giving me the cooking lesson. “That’s not what you said.”
My stomach pitches and heat pools between my legs.
“Y-Yes. No touching, no flirting, no kissing,” I say quietly as Antonio takes another step closer.
He shakes his head. “You said, and I quote, ‘Hands off.’” He holds his hands out, clearly not touching me, before pressing them to the counter on either side of me, boxing me in.
My pulse trips. “Antonio—”
His eyes drop to my finger again, slick and coated with Nutella. His gaze is almost lazy. Almost patient. Like he has all night to wait me out.
I won’t last that long. I swallow hard, my finger still lifted between us like a fuse.
“Your hand. Not mine,” he says. “And I told you, once you break a rule…”
All bets are off.
My knuckles whiten around nothing. My breath clogs in my lungs. His gaze holds mine hostage as he leans over, slow and deliberate, until his mouth hovers a breath from my finger.