Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Bea was starting to forget what fresh air felt like.
She’d spent two days glued to her desk, buried in financial modeling equations and economic theory, venturing out only for caffeine and food. Georgina had disappeared into the black hole of theatre rehearsals with Naomi and Isabel, and Lillian had gone home for study week.
Her phone buzzed against her desk.
GAGE KING: How’s study?
BEA CRUZ: Econ is killing me. RIP.
GAGE KING: Need help?
BEA CRUZ: Are you offering?
GAGE KING: I’ll meet you in the grad study lounge at 5.
Bea reread his message. Then again.
Gage King, whose time was valuable and schedule relentless, just offered to study with her. And not like a passing suggestion. A time, place, see you there situation.
She wasn’t swooning. Maybe. Her heart was doing…something.
Possibly jazz hands.
BEA CRUZ: Aren’t you busy?
GAGE KING: I’ll fit you in.
Butterflies stirred low in her stomach. She told herself not to overthink it, not to turn such a short, simple text into something bigger.
But the thrill bloomed anyway, rising through her chest and catching at her lips until she was smiling, wide, helpless, and apparently gone for a man who always said just enough, only enough, to undo her.
The Graduate Study Lounge was technically off-limits to undergraduates, but Bea had already decided to justify her presence. Gage would be here soon. That was reason enough.
Inside, the space was a sharp contrast to the European grandeur of the library.
Clean lines, gleaming surfaces, and soft recessed lighting gave it the air of a high-end corporate office rather than a study space.
The air was crisp, perfectly climate-controlled, as if productivity itself had been engineered into the design.
Wide-open spaces were dotted with private booths, communal tables, and glass-walled rooms equipped with everything from interactive whiteboards to high-resolution monitors.
It was built for focus, for people who had already grown accustomed to boardrooms in skyscrapers and the quiet, confident hum of corporate life.
Bea passed a group huddled over their laptops, one of them murmuring about locking in a summer internship at a hedge fund.
A set of glass doors led to the outdoor study area stretched under a pergola wrapped in ivy.
Students worked alfresco, balancing their laptops beside cups of espresso from the coffee cart nearby.
Bea didn’t slow until she entered a private room in the back corner.
She was halfway through scribbling notes on a particularly frustrating question, when the door swung open.
She glanced up—and every synapse misfired.
Belatedly, she realized the key to studying with him was making sure she could do so without being distracted. Which meant she was doomed. Academically. Biologically.
Gage stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
He was doing the facial hair thing again, just enough stubble to feel deliberate, hair styled like he had somewhere much more important to be. He looked too good to be here for something as mundane as studying.
“You’re early,” she said redundantly.
“So are you,” he returned.
The room felt much smaller with him in it.
“Figured a change of scenery might make me smarter.” That, and she’d changed her sweater so many times she knew the only way to stop spiraling was to walk out the door.
His brows lifted as he set his bag down and took the seat beside her, eyes flicking over her open notebook. “Didn’t look like it was working when I walked in.”
Bea huffed, tapping her pen against the table. “If I fail, I’m telling the scholarship committee I was lured into a false sense of security by being surrounded by billionaires.”
Gage’s mouth twitched. “You’re welcome to try. I know a few people on the committee.”
“Are they bribable?” she asked, mostly joking.
“Not by you,” he said calmly. “But I might be. Depending on the offer.”
Her heart tripped over itself. Once. Twice. Then thankfully steadied. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” she said, keeping her voice light.
“Where are you stuck?”
Bea sighed and leaned back in her chair, pointing with her pen. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I thought I understood the concept, but my calculations are all over the place.”
Without a word, he took the notebook from her hands. “Let me see.”
She watched as he scanned the page, then he picked up her pen and rewrote part of an equation.
“You’re calculating elasticity like an economist instead of a capitalist.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re assuming markets function fairly. They don’t.”
He leaned closer, flipping the page toward her, and Bea felt the warmth of his body near hers. His scent was clean, masculine, with a quiet intensity that lingered like the echo of a well-made decision. It was familiar now, woven into every space he occupied.
Gage held out the pen. “Here.”
Bea took it automatically, but he didn’t let go right away. Instead, he adjusted her grip, his fingers warm against hers.
“You’re gripping too hard,” he murmured. “Relax.”
Bea’s hand tingled. She tried to focus on the numbers, on anything other than how close he was, but his voice was too steady, too deep, his presence too solid beside her.
“You’re sure you’re listening?” His voice was softer now, quieter.
Her chin dipped, barely. “Yes.”
His thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles before he released her hand. “Good.” Gage leaned back. There was something knowing in his expression, something just a little too satisfied.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re very…”
He lifted a brow. “Very what?”
“Sure of yourself.”
His mouth curved, a little. “Would you prefer if I wasn’t?”
No. That was the problem.
Bea’s attention went to her notes, willing herself to focus.
Gage studied her for a moment longer, then spoke, his tone casual. “If I fix your model, you owe me dinner.”
She peered at him. “Dinner?” He didn’t elaborate, just met her gaze with quiet expectation. “I thought you were just being nice.”
His gaze flickered to her lips, brief, almost imperceptible, before returning to her eyes. “I told you before,” he said. “Nice isn’t the word I want in your mouth when you think of me.”
As if she needed reminding. Her brain had been skipping over that memory like a scratched record.
“I don’t do things without a payoff, Bea.”
She caught herself before she groaned out loud. Added that to the growing anthology of Gage lines designed to haunt her at one in the morning.
“Should we continue?” His eyes held hers, steady.
She blinked, slowly, as if to buy herself time. Then nodded.
His lips tipped—not quite a smile, but enough to count.
Gage reached out, rotating her laptop back toward him. “Pay attention.”
Bea did. But not to the numbers. Not to the calculations.
To him.
Why on Earth was she so nervous? It was just dinner. Except…it wasn’t. Not when Gage had picked the restaurant.
She’d Googled it the second he sent the name. It was in the heart of Northgate: Michelin-starred, discreet, modern, where reservations were made weeks in advance and the menus didn’t bother listing prices.
She’d stared at the website for a full minute, waiting for him to admit it was a joke. He never did.
Bea had spent half the cab ride estimating and calculating, mentally checking her account balance. She could afford this, but it wasn’t an amount she’d drop lightly.
The restaurant was a study in understated elegance.
Warm candlelight flickering against tall, arched windows, vintage chandeliers casting a soft glow over white-linen tables.
Plaster walls, intricate moldings, and antique mirrors reflected the low hum of quiet conversation, the clink of crystal glassware.
She had chosen her outfit carefully, not wanting to look like she thought this was more than it was, but also not wanting to look out of place given the venue.
The soft pink dress was delicate but structured, fitted at the bodice before flaring out into an A-line skirt that stopped a couple of inches above her knee.
The scalloped edges traced along her neckline and hem, adding just a hint of softness, an unspoken contrast to the sharpness of the man she was approaching.
Gage had draped his suit jacket over the back of his chair, now in only his waistcoat. His sleeves were rolled up with deliberate precision, each fold immaculate, exposing just enough muscular forearm to unsettle her.
He stood as she drew near, crossed to her side, and pulled her chair out. Her heart gave a sharp kick against her ribs as she sat.
“Hello,” Bea said first, breaking the silence before it could stretch too long. This was merely a thank-you dinner. Between…friends?
It felt like something else. A move in whatever game Gage was playing.
“Hello.” He handed her a menu, and she took it like a lifeline. It gave her something to focus on. Anything but his eyes. She did not have the bandwidth for eye contact.
The waiter arrived to take their orders. As soon as they were alone again, Gage tilted his head slightly, assessing her. “You’re nervous.”
Bea scoffed, even as her fingers tensed around the napkin in her lap. “I’m not nervous.” A tad oxygen-deprived from trying not to be, sure.
The faintest flicker touched his mouth. “Okay, you’re not nervous.” His agreement did not make her feel better. “I like the dress.”
“Didn’t think jeans and a t-shirt would fit the setting,” she said, breezy.
“No, it wouldn’t.”
She exhaled, still trying to find her footing in whatever this was.
Cautiously, she asked, “Why are we here, Gage?”
He leaned forward, resting an arm on the table. The candlelight caught the gleam of his watch. “Because I helped,” he murmured. “And I wanted dinner.”
She cleared her throat delicately. “Can I pick the place next time? I’m thankful for your help, but Michelin-starred is…excessively grateful.”
The faint suggestion of a smile touched his lips. “You’re already thinking about next time.”
Bea’s fingers tightened on her glass. She hadn’t meant it that way. Not out loud. Her brain needed a PR team. Immediately.
“That’s good,” he continued. “It means you’re learning how this works.”
She opened her mouth to redirect, but he kept going, calm as ever.
“And yes,” he said, almost lazily, “you can pick the place.”
Her brows lifted.
“But I think you misunderstand. You don’t pay.” He said it like it was a rule, not a courtesy. “What makes you think I’d let you pay for dinner with me?”
From anyone else, it’d sound like a flex. But Gage wasn’t flexing. He was clarifying.
The waiter arrived with their food. Steam curled in the air between them. Bea reached for her fork, but before she could take a bite, Gage picked up his own and, without a word, lifted a piece of steak to her lips.
Bea froze.
His expression didn’t change, but the gesture was intimate. Too intimate. And there was no way he didn’t know that.
Her fingers twitched around her utensils. The air between them stretched.
Gage didn’t push. He didn’t speak.
Only waited.
One of those dark brows lifted, expectant. A challenge.
Refusing now would say too much. That she wasn’t ready—for this, for him.
Bea’s pulse stammered. Then, finally, she parted her lips slightly, letting him press the bite against her tongue. The rich, savory taste flooded her senses, but it wasn’t the food that made her breath falter.
Something dark and satisfied slid into his expression. She chewed carefully, aware he was still watching, then tried to swallow past the sudden tightness in her throat.
She set her utensils down, willing her hands to remain steady. Then, subtly, she leaned back—just enough to reclaim space where there had been none.
“Do you always feed your study partners?”
Gage’s smirk was unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to enjoy this moment. “No.”
A beat passed.
Then, his voice came again, calm, casual, like they were discussing the weather. “Do you always let men put things in your mouth?”
Bea’s vision might have actually pixelated for a second.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the table, anchoring herself. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
Gage took a sip of his wine, completely unbothered. “Relax,” he murmured. “I wasn’t insinuating anything.” A long, calculated pause. “I already know the answer to that one.”
Bea’s heart pounded, hard and uneven, as she waited in agony for the rest.
Blue eyes lifted from his glass, locking on her. “Only me.”
Her gaze dropped, unable to hold his. Like eye contact might tip her over the edge.
He was right.
Neither of them spoke. The tension between them wound tight, invisible but undeniable. For long minutes the only sounds were the quiet scrape of silverware, the low murmur of the room beyond.
She had just started to think the moment might pass, that maybe the pressure would fade, and she might scrape through this evening, when she felt it—a touch. Gage’s hand.
Bea stilled.
His fingers were not demanding, but a light tether. His thumb brushed over the delicate skin at the pulse point on her wrist. “You’ve barely touched your food,” he observed.
“I’m not that hungry.”
He traced a single circle against her skin. “Do you want me to give you more of mine?”
Bea tried to glare at him. Failed.
He didn’t smile, but his eyes gave him away. He was enjoying this. Learning how far he could go. Her skin tingled in places she didn’t want to admit to.
“Why did you come tonight?”
She should’ve had an answer. Should’ve had five. “I don’t know.”
Gage studied her, quiet and assessing. Like he was trying to decide if she was being coy, or if she truly didn’t see it yet.
Finally, his grip on her hand loosened.
“Then catch up,” he said gently. “Because you’re already in it, Bea.”