Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
The elevator climbed soundlessly. Beside her, Gage was glancing at his phone, skimming through emails, but his hand stayed wrapped around hers. Like they’d been doing this for years instead of weeks. It still felt so new to her.
She told herself not to overthink. It was normal. Progress. They had been dating long enough. Of course he’d invite her over to his place.
The elevator glided to a stop and the doors opened, revealing a short private corridor and the discreet panel beside his front door. Gage entered a five-digit code. The soft click of the lock was almost inaudible.
He pushed the door forward.
The penthouse was dark. For a moment, she dawdled at the threshold, one hand bracing the doorframe, her eyes adjusting to the dimness.
Gage tugged her gently inside, the door closing behind them at the same time his hand brushed a console on the wall. A soft line of light traced the baseboards, spilling upward and bathing the space in a warm glow.
Shadows receded, revealing clean lines, glass walls, and a view of Northgate that stretched unbroken to the horizon on two sides, like a thousand pinpricks of light shimmering against the inky night.
She slipped out of her shoes. The smooth hardwood was cool under her feet. She was halfway to the window, drawn by the view, when she paused, glancing back at him.
He caught her watching as he hung up his coat. “Go for it.”
Permission to explore.
The lounge sprawled across the open floor with dark leather couches and a glass coffee table.
Exactly two cushions, symmetrically placed.
The kitchen to her right was enormous, industrial, all stainless steel and marble.
Beyond it, an eight-seater dining table sat in front of the window, chairs tucked in neatly.
The whole space was impressive. Minimalist. But not like a museum. More like it belonged to a man who spent almost all of his time elsewhere. At work. At St. Ives. Anywhere but here.
There were no scattered papers, no doom piles or clutter, no signs of daily mess.
She drifted toward the full-wall bookshelf, spines lined up with military precision. Economics. Global markets. Politics. And…cookbooks? Now that was interesting.
Gage set his keys aside as she took it all in. “What’s the analysis?” he prompted dryly.
“You don’t seem to spend much time here.”
“I sleep here.”
“No plants. No pictures. No décor that looks like it took any effort at all.”
“Are you criticizing my interior design?”
“I’m just saying, you either moved in last week, or you treat this place like an extended-hotel stay. Except…” She tilted her head toward the bookshelf. “You have cookbooks.”
Gage walked into the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of wine from his full-sized wine fridge. Because it was totally normal for a university student to have one of those at home. He grabbed two glasses, setting them on the counter. “I cook when I can.”
Bea reared, slightly thrown. “Really?”
Gage uncorked the bottle. “What exactly do you think I eat?”
She bit her lip. “I don’t know. Michelin-starred meal boxes? Food flown in from Tokyo?”
“I like to eat well, but I also like to know how to make what I enjoy.” He poured the wine, sliding a glass toward her. “You’re looking at me like I just told you I moonlight as a magician.”
Bea laughed, wrapping her fingers around the stem of the glass. “It’s just…unexpected.”
He leaned against the counter. “I think you’ll find I have layers, sweetheart.”
Layers of power, of control, were part of the forecast. Layers of domesticity were unforeseen.
“So what are you making tonight, Chef King?”
Gage opened a door that looked like a cabinet but was actually his fridge. He started pulling containers out one by one. “Sablefish. Couscous and pomegranate salad.”
Bea sat at one of the stools at his breakfast bench, swirling her wine. “You realize that sounds fancy to normal people, right?”
The smallest twitch at his mouth said enough.
She rested her chin on her hand, watching as he marinated the sablefish, his sleeves pushed up as he prepped vegetables, moving with quiet proficiency.
There was something intensely attractive about watching a man like Gage King—powerful, self-assured, commanding in every room—casually prepare ingredients like he had nothing better to do than cook for her.
She tapped her fingers against the counter. “Do you need help?”
“With what?”
“I don’t know. Chopping something? Stirring something?” She gestured vaguely. “Being useful.”
He considered her. “You cook?”
Bea took a sip of wine before answering. “I can make a few basics.”
“Like instant noodles?”
She pursed her lips. “Obviously. I’m half Asian.”
He reached for an extra cutting board and set it in front of her. “Alright. Let’s see what we’re working with.”
Bea straightened, rolling up her sleeves. “I take offense to that tone.”
“You should.” Gage handed her a chef’s knife. “Do you know how to hold a knife properly, or am I about to watch you slice off a finger?”
Bea shot him a look. “I’m not a child.”
“No?” he challenged. “Then show me.”
She exhaled and gripped the knife confidently, lifting her chin just a little as she reached for the scallions he had set aside.
This was easy. She could do this.
The moment she started chopping, Gage let out a low chuckle.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She narrowed her eyes. “No. What?”
He leaned forward slightly, bracing a hand against the counter, watching her with blatant amusement. “I’ve just never seen someone try to stab vegetables before.”
Bea scowled. “I’m chopping.”
“You’re hacking.”
Her grip tightened. “Well they’re getting smaller so it’s working.”
Gage sighed, setting his own knife down before stepping behind her. Close. Warm. His chest brushed against her back, warm and hard, as his hand came around, engulfing her smaller one, fingers curled over hers.
Bea froze.
His presence crowded out everything else, even thought. “Let me.”
He guided her grip on the knife, adjusting the pressure. The faint scrape of his belt buckle brushed her lower back, barely there, but it sent a rush of heat curling low in her abdomen, scattering her focus like ash.
His breath was warm against her temple. “Let the knife do the work.”
Bea’s breathing was suddenly shallow. “Okay.”
His grip didn’t move. “Now, rock the blade.” He angled her wrist just right. The movement was slower, smoother. But Bea could barely focus on that, not with him this close. “Better.”
It took her five full seconds to realize she wasn’t actually cutting anything anymore. She had stopped moving, completely still beneath his hands.
“What happened to all that confidence?” he asked, the ghost of something smug in his tone.
Bea scowled, nudging him with her elbow. “Shut up and let me concentrate.”
Even in the kitchen, Gage King was a threat.
Half an hour later, Bea leaned against the counter, watching as Gage plated the food with a level of mastery that made her irrationally jealous.
How is it possible that he’s good at everything?
“You’re annoying,” she grieved.
Gage set down the last dish before glancing at her. “Elaborate.”
She pointed, one by one, at the beautifully arranged plates. “This. You cook like a professional. You could at least be mediocre at something.”
He exhaled through his nose, as he poured her a glass of sparkling water. “You’re making up for it. Mostly through chaos.”
Bea drew back, mock offended. “I was assisting.”
He nodded toward the counter. “That’s a lot of mess for an assistant.”
Huffing, she crossed her arms. “Maybe Western food isn’t my strength.”
“Mhm,” he replied noncommittally. Suddenly, Gage raised his glass in a quiet toast. His eyes found hers. “To one month.”
A tiny crease formed between her brows. “It hasn’t been a month.”
“Since the kitchen.”
Bea’s mouth formed the word she didn’t verbalize.
Oh. He’d counted from there.
She lifted her glass, meeting his with a soft clink. “To one month.”
They ate, conversation flowing as it always did.
Bea had him grinning with stories from her tutoring sessions with Nico, and listening in that focused way of his as she shared about mundane things like classes and deadlines.
He spoke, briefly, but candidly, about his work.
The relentless momentum of it. He never complained; she doubted he ever did.
But she could tell he understood exactly what was waiting for him after graduation.
Somewhere between it all, they made plans for winter break.
By the time they finished, Bea felt lighter. More settled. At some point, without realizing it, she’d stopped feeling like a guest in his space. Being here, with him, felt easy.
While she was clearing the plates, Gage slipped out of the room. When he returned, he set a small, elegant box on the counter in front of her. Soft pink, tied with a flawless white ribbon.
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her. “Open it.”
Bea blinked, then gently tugged the ribbon loose and lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a navy silk sleep shirt. Liquid-soft, with delicate buttons running top to bottom, and tiny embroidered initials BC stitched on the pocket. It was exactly her size, long enough to skim mid-thigh, maybe a little higher.
For a dizzying second, she imagined slipping it on—bare skin against cool silk, the fabric catching faintly at her hips, his eyes following the glide like a touch she could almost feel.
Heat crept into her cheeks, slow and helpless. “Gage…it’s beautiful. You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
She looked up, feeling sheepish now. “I didn’t get you anything. I didn’t know we were counting from the kitchen.”
He shrugged, unconcerned. “Doesn’t matter.”
Bea smiled down at the silk. “Still, I want to give you something, too.”
He stepped closer, plucking the shirt from the box. The fabric slid through his fingers as he held it up, slow and easy. “It’s not really for you.”
She gave him a look. “How is it not?”
“It’s for me. You’re just going to be the one wearing it.”