Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
I’m parked at my desk at our office at Elysium, but my attention isn’t on the coding work sprawling across my dual monitors. Instead, I’m glued to the security feed from Amelia’s office hallway, which is far more compelling than any algorithm I’m meant to be tweaking.
My restlessness has spiked in the last few hours, fueled by an unusual nervous excitement about the evening ahead. It’s a feeling foreign enough to have me questioning my own sanity.
What is even happening?
I could have logged off, headed home, and monitored her arrival remotely via Jamie’s interface, but I chose to wait instead. I’ll wait until she leaves to follow up shortly after, ensuring she gets home safely.
Yeah, because crossing a street can be so damned dangerous.
As I ponder my own overprotectiveness, her office door on my security feed finally swings open. Amelia appears, and I instinctively straighten up, ready to time my departure just right. But she stops, not rushing out as expected. Instead, she pauses by the aquarium that adorns the hallway.
My pulse quickens.
No way.
“Oh no, you do not,” I mutter under my breath, eyes locked on the monitor.
This draws Oliver and Misha’s attention. Previously engrossed in their own screens, they now shuffle over to my desk, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the live feed.
Misha lets out a low, disbelieving chuckle. “She’s not serious, is she?”
But Oliver, leaning closer to the screen, confirms with a grin, “She definitely is.”
We watch, in equal parts amused and baffled as Amelia, poised on her tiptoes, scoops fish from the tank. She inspects her catch with a delighted grin, then performs a quick, little dance, the bag swinging in her hand.
She stops abruptly, her eyes darting up and down the hallway. The joyous spark fades, and with a swift glance around, she hurriedly tucks the bag into her backpack and leaves.
“For fuck’s sake, Amelia,” I growl under my breath, my fingers flying over the keyboard to manipulate the security feed, ensuring no one else will be the wiser about her little escapade.
Misha watches the screen, still chuckling. “Little kleptomaniac,” he teases, shaking his head. “Makes you wonder if it’s only fish or if she’s got a whole collection of stolen goods at home.”
“I doubt she’s the type to steal anything serious,” I counter, my words tinged with uncertainty. “Though, apparently, fish are fair game.”
She’s like a magnet for trouble.
Oliver leans back, his laughter subsiding into a thoughtful frown. “Maybe there’s a bigger picture we’re not seeing.”
“Probably,” Misha agrees with a shrug, his eyes still fixed on the screen. “It’s fun as hell, though.”
“Yeah, but why these fish?” Oliver muses aloud. “I bet she earns enough. She could buy her own if she wanted. There’s no need to steal them.”
“Maybe it’s the kick she gets out of it?” Misha offers.
I shake my head, my gaze still fixed on the now-empty hallway on the screen. “There’s something she’s not telling us. And I’m going to find out what it is,” I declare, rising from my chair.
I quickly gather my things and then head out of our office without another word to the guys.
Reaching our building, I take the elevator up to our apartment on the eighteenth floor. Inside our home office, I position myself in front of the array of monitors. Amelia is already home and settling the fish into her aquarium. The tenderness she shows them only deepens the mystery.
What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, Amelia?
With a sigh, I turn away from the monitors and head to my room and my en suite to splash water on my face. Looking in the mirror, I see a man caught between annoyance and fascination.
A fascination I shouldn’t feel.
On a whim, I change into a clean shirt and dab on a bit of cologne—things you would do before a date.
Which this definitely isn’t, I remind myself firmly as I check my appearance one last time. Yet the nervous flutter in my stomach mocks my denial.
Before I can exit our apartment, the door swings open, and Misha and Oliver stroll in. They look surprised to see me getting ready to leave already.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Misha asks, raising an eyebrow.
I straighten, clenching my jaw for a moment before responding. “Heading down to Amelia’s. Someone told her I would be cooking dinner with her tonight.”
Misha’s eyes light up with mischief, and a wide grin spreads across his face.
“Oh, shut up. You’re happy you can take over the hands-on part of the beta testing.
” He chuckles, clearly amused by his own inference.
“Otherwise, you would just be hovering over the monitors to make sure she doesn’t hurt herself. ”
I scowl at Misha’s teasing, but it’s half-hearted.
Because he’s right.
Oliver steps forward, nodding in agreement. “It’s a good thing. Maybe she won’t feel so lonely tonight.”
Fuck.
He wouldn’t want me there if he knew how I was thinking about his precious Amelia.
“Keep an eye on things from here then,” I tell them, hoping the knowledge that they’ll be watching us will keep me in check.
Squaring my shoulders, I leave the apartment and take the elevator down, my heart irregularly thumping as I approach her door. Standing before it, I pause, take a deep breath, and straighten my shirt. Then, with a resolute tap, I knock.
Here we go.
Moments later, the door swings open, and there she stands. “Oh, look who knows how to knock, after all,” Amelia teases, her arms crossed as she leans against the doorframe.
Little minx.
I have to suppress a smile, happy she’s back to sass. I was worried when I was too harsh with her earlier today, and she retreated from me.
I can’t help but chuckle at her jab. “I thought I’d try something new. You know, manners,” I reply, stepping into her apartment as she steps aside to let me in.
“Shocking,” she quips, closing the door behind me.
I kick off my shoes, and we make our way to her kitchen. I know that Oliver and Misha are watching our every move back in our office, and I feel guilty because she doesn’t.
Fuck, we’re assholes.
“So, spinach lasagna tonight?” I ask, trying to swallow the guilt while surveying the ingredients laid out on her counter, surprised she has already decided on something.
“Yeah, Jamie thought it’d be simple enough, even for a kitchen novice, and he already ordered everything we need for it last Saturday,” Amelia says, her tone light.
Ah.
“Good choice.” I nod approvingly. “Let’s get started then. Jamie, you ready to assist?”
Jamie’s voice chimes in from the speakers, “Always ready to help, Grey.”
I wash my hands, and Amelia follows suit. Then she stands beside me, her face lit up with eagerness. I can’t help but notice how her excitement makes her eyes sparkle behind her glasses.
“Jamie, preheat the oven to three seventy-five, please,” I command, tearing my eyes off her to see if there is a lack of reaction, but the light goes on instantly.
“Oven preheating initiated,” Jamie announces.
“First, we’re going to mix the ricotta with spinach and herbs,” I instruct, showing her how to combine the ingredients. I easily move around her kitchen, fetching each item as if I were in my own space.
“Let me try,” Amelia demands, stepping forward to take the bowl. While she stirs, her hand wobbles, and a dollop of ricotta overflows.
Quickly, I reach out, catching the drip on my finger, and bring it to my mouth. “Doesn’t taste too bad.” Curious, Amelia dips her finger into the mixture, and I immediately wrinkle my nose. “Use a spoon, please.”
“What, for this?” she challenges, her voice playful as she dips her finger in again, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“Yes, for that,” I confirm, a hint of mock sternness in my tone as I step closer to her.
“It’s good.” Unperturbed, she grins and goes for another taste.
This time, I act quickly, grasping her wrist before she can bring her finger to her mouth again. I bring her finger to my lips instead and suck off the ricotta, maintaining eye contact.
God, I wanna lick all of you.
Her cheeks flush, her eyes are wide with surprise and something else—perhaps delight—at the unexpected intimacy. She’s momentarily speechless, her usual quick wit paused as she seemingly processes what I just did.
I don’t know either, baby.
“Needs more salt, though,” I remark awkwardly after releasing her and stepping back again to reach for the salt, glancing up at one of her many cameras on the ceiling.
Shit, no idea how to explain that to Oliver.
I show her how to layer the lasagna properly, our hands occasionally brushing as we work together. With each shared smile and glance, the kitchen feels smaller, the air thick with something.
The fuck I know what.
“Now, let’s set up the stove for the béchamel. Jamie, set the stovetop to medium heat.”
The stove instantly reacts as I watch, affirming that our adjustments are functioning correctly.
“Stovetop setting adjusted. Ready to cook,” Jamie responds in a prompt, clear voice.
“It looks like Oliver fixed the delay in responding,” I say, more to myself than to her, but she answers anyway.
“And that in a day, given he was occupied with the personality update yesterday. He really is bloody brilliant.” Her voice has a note of admiration that doesn’t escape me. It’s warranted, of course, but it kindles a small flame of jealousy in my chest.
Why though?
I should be so damn happy for Oliver that Amelia seems to finally notice him.
As I start making the béchamel, she watches intently. “I’m never able to make this without it clumping,” she observes, her eyes tracking the whisk in my hands. “You’re really good at this.”
I’d love to show you what else I can do with a flick of my wrist.
“I have many hidden talents,” I joke, stirring the sauce smoothly, which earns me a light chuckle from her. “Jamie, could you set a timer for the lasagna?” I ask while I pour the sauce on top of it.
“Timer set for twenty-five minutes,” Jamie replies promptly.