Chapter 16 #3
“You love tech. We work in tech,” she points out, arching an eyebrow.
“True, but I like…” I pause, letting the words find me, “… the raw creativity. They really had to think outside the box back then, didn’t they? Less tech, more brain.”
Amelia laughs, the sound light and easy. “So, you’re just nostalgic?”
“Something like that,” I admit with a half-smile, shrugging. “It’s about the art of innovation with limits.”
“Is that the reason why you’re the only one at Elysium with a classic watch instead of a smartwatch?” Amelia asks, a hint of curiosity in her voice as her eyes find the watch on my wrist.
“You noticed that, huh?” I reply, feeling a mix of surprise and a subtle warmth that she pays such close attention to me.
“I did.”
The room seems to quiet just a little as I look down at my watch, my grandpa’s watch, its hands ticking steadily. “Well, sometimes, the old things are just more beautiful and have more meaning to them. We shouldn’t forget that with all the innovation.”
Amelia’s eyebrows furrow in a cute crease as she contemplates my words. It’s a thoughtful, almost introspective look.
“Come on, let’s eat,” I offer, breaking the brief silence as I reach out to take her hand, walking her over to her table.
We take our seats, and Amelia watches me, curiosity lighting up her eyes as I serve the lasagna, scooping generous portions onto our plates. “Are you a vegetarian, too?” she asks, her fork hovering over her plate.
“I am,” I reply, savoring a bite.
The flavors blend perfectly.
“For a long time?” Her question lingers in the air, punctuated by her fork finally diving into the lasagna.
“Since forever,” I say with a casual shrug, taking another bite. The rich layers of the lasagna melt in my mouth, and I can’t help but feel proud. “Do you like your creation?” I ask, nodding toward her plate.
She laughs, her hand covering her mouth like she always does, in a way that’s both charming and guarded. “My creation? I think it’s more yours than mine, but yes, it’s excellent. You did an amazing job, even though you’re fishing for compliments.”
I shoot her a playful glare. “That was not fishing for compliments.”
“Oh, I disagree,” she retorts, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “That was definitely a stroke for your ego, Mr. Donovan.”
Fuck, why are you doing this to me? Calling me Mr. Donovan like that, with that sassy tone and flirtatious glint in her eye, is just cruel. I have to shift my hips to give my poor cock a break from straining against my pants, which have been uncomfortably tight all evening.
“It’s Doctor Donovan,” I correct her, trying to sound stern but failing miserably.
“Oh my God, you’re such a Billy Big Bollocks!” she accuses, her voice dripping with amusement.
“Billy Big, what?”
“You’re a cocky arsehole.” She grins, but she says it with such delight it doesn’t really come off as an insult and makes the corners of my mouth twitch into a reluctant smile.
This kind of banter, sharp yet affectionate, is something I didn’t know I needed. She is something I didn’t know I needed—a breath of fresh air in my life, a spark of excitement that sets my pulse racing.
“You, Miss Stanley, are one of the lucky few who are allowed to call me Grey,” I say with a smirk, counting on her to correct me, to tell me that she’s a doctor too.
“Please don’t call me that.” She shudders, her expression grim.
“Why?” I ask, my curiosity piqued by her strong reaction.
“It reminds me too much of home,” she replies, her voice tinged with a hint of sadness as she picks at her food, her enthusiasm dampening like a flame snuffed out.
I raise my eyebrows. “They call you Miss Stanley at home? Are you descended from royalty?”
She laughs a sound that seems to chase away the shadows for a moment. “Sure, you’re sitting in front of a princess and don’t even know it.”
I can tell she’s joking, so I play along. “Oh, you’re very much a princess but not of royal blood.”
“Hey!” she protests, her eyes sparkling with mock indignation as she mutters, “I am so not.”
“What do your parents do then?” I ask, hopefully steering the conversation toward why the mention of London is uncomfortable for her.
“Father is a lawyer, and Mother a housewife,” she answers simply, her tone nonchalant but her eyes avoiding mine.
I notice how formally she talks about them, but it’s clear we haven’t made enough progress today for her to open up more, which irks me.
I want to learn more about her, to understand the layers behind that spark and wit.
But I respect her boundaries, recognizing that trust takes time—especially with someone as guarded as Amelia.
“What do your parents do?”
Well, I brought this on myself…
“They’re conflict journalists,” I reply, taking another bite of lasagna to buy myself a moment to think about how much to reveal.
She’s not the only one who’s guarded, after all.
“They specialize in covering stories from war zones, providing news coverage from regions experiencing armed conflict.” I rattle off what Grandpa made me tell people when I was a kid, and people asked where my parents were.
Apparently, “They went to war to interview the bad guys” wasn’t good enough.
“Where are they right now?” Her brows knit together in concern.
“Somewhere in the Middle East,” I shrug nonchalantly, trying to mask my discomfort with indifference.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her response catching me off guard.
“Why?” I ask, puzzled. People usually react with a how cool, or that’s so brave, not with sympathy.
“That must be hard, always being worried about them,” she utters quietly, her eyes reflecting a genuine concern.
It feels like I’m worried for everybody all the time. But I just huff, letting my guard slip a little. “I’d be more worried if they showed the same concern for me.”
Her eyes widen. “They don’t?”
“Not as much as parents probably should,” I admit, the words tasting bitter as they leave my mouth.
“I know that feeling,” she murmurs, a shadow passing over her features.
So it’s the parents, then.
This conversation is straying dangerously close to therapy territory, and after the emotional roller coaster of the evening, I’m craving a break. “Have you watched any good puppy videos you can recommend today?” I ask, obviously changing the topic.
She tilts her head to study me but then seems to decide to let it slide. “Oh, so you’re a dog person, huh?”
“One hundred percent. You are too, I guess?”
“I’m an everything person. I’d probably have a zoo if I had the time.”
“What would you get first?” I probe, genuinely curious.
“A puppy, definitely,” she admits, her voice carrying a hint of longing.
So, not more fish. Interesting.
“My grandpa has a dog. I take him for walks every weekend since he can’t manage it himself anymore.”
She perks up, leaning forward, her interest clearly piqued. “That’s really sweet of you.”
“It’s not just out of kindness,” I confess with a chuckle. “I love it too. Peanut needs the exercise, and I need the fresh air.”
Her fork halts midair, her expression shifting to one of amused disbelief, her eyebrows arching upwards in surprise. “Wait, his name is Peanut?”
Realization dawns on me, and laughter bursts forth freely. It’s a deep, relieving laugh that fills the space between us before she joins in with her giggles.
I have no idea when I last laughed that hard.
“I was going to ask if you wanted to join me for a walk, but I guess I should keep peanuts away from you,” I quip, still chuckling.
Her sweet giggles soften into a gentle smile. “No, I’d love to join. Really.”
“Sunday?” I venture, my words carrying a hopeful edge with a hint of nervousness.
I wanted to keep my distance, and now I ask her out? Is this what this is? Or just a walk between two new friends?
“Yes, Sunday is perfect,” she whispers, her response almost lost amid the pounding of my heart in my ears. “I can’t wait to meet Peanut.”
And I can’t wait to spend more time with you.
I stand to clear the dishes, and Amelia quickly joins me, grabbing plates and silverware.
When she watches me put away the last of them into the dishwasher, she says, “Thanks for helping with dinner. It was really good, and this was… nice.”
“It was,” I respond, feeling a genuine smile tug at my lips. “And now we’re sure everything works as it should.“
As if that was your focus tonight, Grey.
We finish tidying up, wiping down the counters one last time, ensuring everything is back in its place. It feels domesticated, homey.
I need to leave.
“I have to head out.”
“Of course,” she replies quietly, a hint of sadness in her eyes. “Thanks… again. It was fun.”
She walks me to her door. I pull on my shoes, and as I step out, she looks up at me with an expression I can’t quite read—something tender, something longing.
Fuck.
On impulse, I reach out and grab her hand, pulling her outside the apartment where I know the cameras don’t reach.
In a swift motion, I draw her close, one hand at the small of her back, the other cradling the back of her head. I hug her tightly, inhaling the sweet, milky, vanilla-lavender scent of her hair. I can’t resist planting a soft kiss on the top of her head.
“Good night, Princess,” I whisper, feeling her hands clutch at the fabric of my shirt, her grip tight.
“Night,” she mumbles into my chest.
After a moment, I release her, stepping back quickly. Turning away without another glance, I stride toward the elevator, the heavy beat of my heart echoing my rapid steps. As the doors slide shut, I’m left with the lingering warmth of her embrace and a tightness in my chest.
What the fuck am I doing?
I can’t afford to feel this way, not about her. Not when Oliver…
I shake my head, trying to dispel the thoughts, my mind replaying every moment, every look, every accidental touch.
I’m in trouble, all right.
But for now, I’ll keep it to myself, locked away where it can’t do any more damage. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I close my eyes on a breath, with her laughter still echoing in my ears.