Chapter 8 – Chrissy #2
“There’s a file on everyone,” he said. “It’s a safety thing. Public posts on social media. Background checks. Medical notes. Allergies. That sort of thing.”
I choked back a hysterical giggle.
“Right. Sure. That’s totally fucking normal.”
My skin prickled.
“Wash up and get ready,” he said gently, stepping back from the wardrobe. “You’ve got a little time. If you are allowed at dinner, there’ll be a knock at your door around seven-twenty. If there’s no knock…”
“I’ll get escorted off the property,” I finished.
He didn’t deny it, just turned and reached for the door.
Panic flared inside me, sharp and hot and entirely irrational.
“Wait,” I blurted, moving before my brain could tell my body to knock it off.
My fingers wrapped around his forearm — solid muscle under worn fabric, heat seeping through the jacket. His muscles went tight under my hand as he froze.
“Miss Jones,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t touch me.”
The warning in his tone drew out goosebumps all over my skin.
“But—”
“If Henry — or anyone — sees,” he went on, “you’ll lose the Game before it really starts. And besides that, I don’t know what Mr. Stonewood would do to me for stepping that far out of line.”
I should’ve let go, but I didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I promise I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me.”
A humorless breath slipped out of him.
“Too late for that,” he said. “I volunteered. That part’s on me.”
“I know, but—” My throat went tight. I swallowed hard, fingers still curled against his arm.
“Jacob, I’m not… I’m not here because this sounds fun, or because I want to be married to some random stranger with more money than God.
I’m here because I’m out of options on all fronts, and the Game is the best chance I have at turning things around. ”
His gaze flicked down to where my hand held his arm, then back up to my face.
“What are you out of, sweet girl?” he asked quietly.
“Time,” I said. “Money. Ways to take care of the person who took care of me my whole life.”
Granny Irene’s name burned behind my teeth. I didn’t say it out loud. Once I started, I wasn’t sure I’d stop. I sucked in a breath that felt like it had shards of glass in it.
“And I know I probably shouldn’t say this,” I went on, the words tumbling out faster now, “but I need you to understand why I keep… doing stupid things around you.”
One of his brows ticked up.
“Stupid things?”
“Like this,” I said, giving his arm the smallest, most helpless little squeeze. “Like grabbing you and refusing to let go when you’re clearly trying to be good and follow the rules.”
His throat moved in a hard swallow.
“Chrissy—”
“I wanted to kiss you,” I blurted. “That day at the hardware store.”
Silence.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I pushed forward anyway, because if I didn’t say it now, I never would.
“I was supposed to be bandaging your hand,” I said, voice shaking. “And all I could think about was how I wanted to lean in and kiss you instead. I didn’t, obviously. I’m not a complete lunatic.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmured, but there was no real bite in it.
My laugh came out broken.
“I thought I imagined you after,” I admitted. “I kept thinking… there’s no way someone looked at me like that and then just walked out of my life, never to be seen again. I told myself I made it bigger in my head. That you were just some stranger with a cut hand, having a rough day.”
His jaw clenched.
I took a breath and jumped.
“But I didn’t make it up,” I said. “And I haven’t stopped thinking about you.
Not really. Not when things get quiet. Not when I’m sitting with Granny at Bayview and the only sound is the oxygen machine and her breath and whatever stupid Hallmark movie the nurses put on.
My brain just… goes back there. To your face.
To your gorgeous blue eyes. To that scar, and all the questions I have about the story behind it. ”
His eyes went darker, some emotion I couldn’t name pulling tight across his features.
“If I have to…” my voice broke, but I forced it to steady.
“If I have to sell my soul and my freedom and marry some billionaire stranger to make sure my grandmother has the end of her life she deserves, then I just…” I swallowed.
“I want to know what it’s like to kiss you, just once, before I walk into whatever this is with Mr. Stonewood and his Game and his money. ”
His whole body went still under my hand.
When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped a full octave.
“Why?” he asked.
The question wasn’t mocking, it was raw.
I lifted my chin and met his gaze head-on.
“Because I feel drawn to you,” I said simply.
“Like gravity. Like pressure in my bones. I don’t have a better explanation than that.
I just know that when I close my eyes at night and my brain tries to pull up something that doesn’t hurt, it pulls up you that day at the hardware and the way your hand felt in mine while I was bandaging it. ”
His mouth parted, just a little, but no sound came out.
I took a breath I wasn’t sure I’d get through.
“And if I’m going to walk into this house and let people like Henry and the mysterious Mr. Stonewood decide my future,” I finished, “I want one thing that is mine to carry with me into the future. Something I choose. Something that isn’t a transaction or a performance.
Just… you and me, for five blessed seconds, before I sign away the rest of my life. ”
We stared at each other.
The air felt thick and electric.
Finally, he spoke, barely above a whisper.
“My scars don’t bother you?”
The question speared straight through my chest.
“Why would they?” I asked, honestly baffled. “They make you who you are. They prove you survived something that should’ve taken you out. And you’re still the most devastatingly handsome man I’ve ever seen, scars or not.”
Something shattered behind his eyes.
He took a step closer, so close I could see the tiny variations in the scar’s texture, the way one side of his mouth tugged when he swallowed.
“Chrissy,” he said, and my name in his mouth sounded like a warning and a prayer at the same time. “You can’t tell anyone this happened. If they find out, Henry will eliminate you in a heartbeat. And Mr. Stonewood…”
He stopped. Whatever he’d been about to say didn’t feel like it had a happy ending.
“I understand,” I whispered. “I won’t say a word to anyone, I promise.”
His gaze searched mine one last time, like he was looking for any hint of a lie.
Apparently, he didn’t find one because he moved.
One second, I was standing there with my hand on his arm.
The next, my back was against the wall beside the door as he nudged it closed, the cool paneling pressing into my shoulder blades and his body a furnace in front of me.
He didn’t crowd me, didn’t pin me, but he was close enough that the scent of him wrapped around me.
He smelled like soap, cold air, and something woody, like sandalwood.
He braced one hand beside my head, the other hovering near my hip but not quite touching me.
“You sure?” he asked, voice rough. “This is what you want?”
“Yes,” I breathed.
With the hand that had been on the wall beside my head, he cupped my cheek, fingertips brushing from jaw to temple with feather-light care before his palm settled against my cheek. He leaned forward but paused, like he was giving me one last chance to flinch.
I didn’t. I leaned into it.
His eyes went molten, and then his mouth was on mine.
The kiss wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t harsh, either.
It was… hungry. Like he’d been holding himself back for years and finally let the leash slip.
His lips were warm and firm, tasting like winter air and something I couldn’t name, but already knew I’d never forget.
My hands flew up, fingers tangling in his dark, messy black hair, tugging him closer on instinct.
He made a low sound in his chest that went straight to my core.
I’d wanted to know what it felt like.
I hadn’t expected it to feel like this… like the floor shifting, like all the rules in that damn Game contract blurring and fading into dust.
No kissing. No falling in love with the wrong person. No names.
I was breaking at least two of those already.
Maybe all three.
I slid one hand down, the tips of my fingers brushing the line of his scar, tracing it lightly from his temple to his jaw, and down the column of his throat. His breath hitched against my mouth, like that small touch undid him more than anything else.
He deepened the kiss once, twice, then tore himself back with a ragged inhale, forearm braced against the wall above my head like he needed it to stay upright.
We stared at each other.
His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven pulls.
Mine wasn’t doing much better.
“You have to keep that to yourself,” he said hoarsely. “For your own sake. If Henry finds out, you’re gone. And Mr. Stonewood…”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
I didn’t ask him to.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I promised. “I swear.”
Slowly, he stepped back, and the loss of his heat stirred a physical ache in my chest. He reached for the door, fingers tight on the knob.
“I’ll lock this behind me,” he said. “You’re not a prisoner, but… rules are rules. For now.”
“Jacob,” I said softly.
He paused.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “For the tire, for volunteering to be my partner, and for this.”
His shoulders rose and fell once.
“Don’t thank me yet, Miss Jones,” he said without turning. “The Game hasn’t really started.”
The lock clicked when the door shut behind him.
I stood there with my back against the wall, lips tingling, heart hammering, the faint taste of him still clinging to my mouth.
Somewhere in this house, a billionaire recluse was watching cameras and deciding whether or not I got to stay long enough to ruin my life for the person I loved most.
To make things worse, Jacob was walking toward the West Wing to answer for the way he’d thrown himself between me and elimination.
I pressed my fingers to my mouth and let out a shaky breath.
Don’t fall in love with the wrong person, the game requirement had said.
Too late, I thought.
The wrong person had already kissed me senseless.