Chapter Eight
Gareth
The next afternoon
I’d spent most of dinner trying not to stare at her.
Correction - I’d spent most of dinner pretending not to stare at her, which was more exhausting than my last full triathlon.
Maribel had outdone herself, as usual: braised short rib, sweet onion purée, and a crème br?lée so perfect I’d almost forgiven her for the daily gossip mill she encouraged and participated in, but my appetite was shot.
The only thing I could focus on was Eden, four seats away at the monstrous dining table, sleeves rolled up, knifework surgical as she attacked her beef.
No eye contact. That was the rule I’d given myself after I’d kissed her.
But every time she laughed, or pushed her curly hair out of her face, or reached for the water carafe, I could feel the chemical burn of my attention tracking her like a guided missile.
And she knew it, the little minx. She didn’t glance over, didn’t acknowledge me once, but her posture - straighter, more squared - told me she was aware.
After dessert, the guests peeled off, upper management that worked for me, a few loyalists, none important enough to linger. This dinner was for show, to test the waters, to get some good PR before the next event put a smear on my name.
Eden hung back, clearing the last plates.
It wasn’t her job, not even close, but she made a point of stacking all the empty ramekins and ferrying them herself to the kitchen.
When she returned, the staff had melted away.
Just her, standing at the head of the table, hands folded, as if waiting for permission to leave.
I should have sent her away. I was running low on restraint and even lower on clever conversation. Instead, I said, “Would you join me in the study for a moment?” My voice was pure frost, but even I could hear the edge in it.
She hesitated, just enough to let me know she understood what I was really asking. Then she said, “Of course, Mr. Wolfe.”
I wanted to correct her - Gareth, just Gareth - but I didn’t this time. Distance was good. Necessary. Especially if I couldn’t hold back this lingering desire for her that ate away at me every second of the day and night.
We walked in silence, footsteps muffled by the wool runner. The house was at its quietest, no cleaning crew, no muttered arguments from the laundry, no gardeners waging war on the weed population. Just the hush of bad decisions I was probably about to make.
The study was exactly as I’d left it, wood-paneled, lit only by firelight and a brass desk lamp, the air rich with cigar and cedar. I gestured to the leather club chair opposite the desk. She sat, perching at the edge, spine as rigid as the mahogany.
I took my usual seat, but didn’t touch the paperwork waiting for me. Just watched her, hands steepled, trying to read the temperature of the room.
“You wanted to see me?” she asked, eyes never quite meeting mine as she sat opposite me.
I could have lied, said it was about the event she’d been so meticulously planning and fixing as I made demands, or a new itinerary, or even the wine list. But she deserved more than that.
“I wanted to thank you,” I said. “For not bolting.”
She raised her eyebrows. “From dinner?”
“From the house.” I kept my gaze fixed on her. “Most new hires don’t last this long.”
She snorted, a sound I never would have tolerated from anyone else. “Well, I’m stubborn, if nothing else.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said.
The fire crackled, sending shadows up the walls. I could hear my own pulse in my ears, steady but too fast. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been nervous in my own home, but here I was, a grown man, scared shitless by a woman who weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet.
She shifted, crossing her legs. The hem of her skirt inched higher, just a hair, but it was enough to distract me as my gaze locked on her creamy thighs as I wondered if they felt as smooth as they looked. I wanted to run my tongue along them-
“I like it here,” she said, quietly. “I mean, it’s weird, and intense, and half the staff are probably fugitives. But I like the work.”
I chuckled. “I run rigorous background checks.”
“Maybe they haven’t been caught yet.” She raised her eyebrows, and I let out a laugh, a real one.
“And the boss?” I asked, before I could think better of it.
She hesitated, then looked me dead in the eye. “He’s…not what I expected.”
My heart thumped my ribs painfully hard. There was a silence, long and uncomfortable. I could have filled it, but I waited.
Finally, she said, “Can I ask you something personal?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“Do you ever…regret it? All of this?” She gestured to the room, the house, maybe the entire legacy. “The isolation?”
The question shouldn’t have stung, but it did. I’d built this prison, brick by brick. No one else to blame.
“Sometimes,” I said. “But regret is a luxury.”
She looked down, twisting a ring on her thumb. “My brother used to say that.”
I sat up, alert. “You have a brother?”
“Had,” she corrected, voice barely above a whisper.
“Dolan. He…didn’t make it past twenty-five.
” She paused, her eyes shimmering with memories and pain.
“My parents didn’t handle it well. They cut off everyone, including me.
It felt like they only loved him, and betrayed me when he…
” she stopped, as if the words got too hard to say.
I waited while she swallowed hard then kept speaking. “Gram’s the only one who ever calls.”
I wanted to say something, anything, but the words stuck. I thought of my own family, the way we were nothing but polite, never closing the gap, never bridging the cold. I wondered if I was making the right move, or if I was just repeating a pattern of avoidance that would outlast even this house.
“Grief makes people stupid,” I said, finally. “Or cruel.”
She blinked, surprised. Then she smiled, sad and sweet. “Yeah. It does.”
The fire popped, a coal tumbling to the grate. I wanted to cross the room, to put a hand on her shoulder, but I stayed put.
“Sorry,” she said, wiping at the corner of her eye. “I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”
“It’s not a dump,” I said, and then immediately regretted my phrasing. “You’re allowed to talk about it.”
She nodded, but the blush had crept all the way to her ears. I was achingly aware of how much I wanted to reach out, to feel the heat in her skin, to see if she’d flinch or lean in.
She found her voice again, lighter now. “Your turn.”
“My turn for what?”
“To say something personal.” She arched an eyebrow, challenging me.
God help me, I couldn’t resist a challenge.
“My mother used to make me practice ballroom dance,” I said. “Every Saturday, from the time I was six. She said every gentleman knew how to dance.”
“Is that why you’re so good at it?” Her tone was teasing, but something in her eyes had gone very soft.
I shrugged. “I hated every minute. She’d correct my posture, my timing, the way I held my partner. She said I’d never be a gentleman if I couldn’t lead with confidence.”
“And did you ever-?”
“Become a gentleman?” I finished. “Doubtful.”
She shook her head, smiling widely now. “No, I was going to ask if you ever liked it.”
I paused, letting the question sit. “Not until recently.”
The room went very quiet.
She reached up and pulled her hair back, her skirt riding scandalously high. “I’m sorry if dancing with me brought all that back.”
I almost laughed. “You have it exactly backwards. Dancing with you made it all worthwhile.”
She didn’t respond, not verbally. But she stood, came around the desk and reached across the space between us to place her hand on my forearm. The contact was feather-light, but it might as well have been a lightning strike. I felt my entire body go hot, pulse doubling.
She squeezed, once, and whispered, “Thank you.”
I wasn’t sure what she was thanking me for, but I nodded anyway.
There was a moment, one long enough for the consequences to flash neon in my head, where I could have pulled away, reset the boundary. Instead, I let the urge win.
I turned my hand, catching hers, and tugged her gently forward. She moved toward me, a little unsteady, and stepped between my knees, gaze fixed on my mouth.
I tilted my head up. “You don’t have to-”
She cut me off, leaning down and kissing me. Soft, sweet, nothing like the desperate, hard fantasy that had kept me up last night. Her lips were warm, her breath fast, and for a moment I let myself believe I could have this. That she wanted this as much as I did.
I pulled her closer, hands on her hips, but didn’t force her down.
She stayed in control, kissing me with the kind of restraint I’d never mastered.
She tasted like sweet berries, sugar, and the wine we’d shared at dinner.
When she finally broke away, her cheeks were flaming, her mouth parted in surprise.
“Sorry,” she said, but there was no apology in her eyes.
“Don’t be,” I said. My voice was rough, a little wild.
She smiled, and this time it was real. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”
“Me, too,” I said, and then, because I couldn’t help myself, “You have no idea.” Just like she had no idea I was standing at attention, ready for her, wanting nothing more than to pull her into my lap and release this ache within me by burying myself inside her.
She laughed, soft and low, and leaned in again. This time, I met her halfway.
The fire burned down, the room growing darker and more private.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t thinking about consequences.
I was just thinking about her.
She relaxed into my lap, her breath tickling my chin and chest where I’d unbuttoned the top three and removed my tie. And we sat there, until after the last log had gone to embers.