Chapter 13 Dangerously Close
Dangerously Close
Langston
The drive is quiet at first. Chicago traffic hums around us, sunlight bouncing off the skyline. Sabrina’s got one leg tucked under her and her forehead pressed against the window, humming to whatever’s playing softly on the radio.
She looks peaceful.
Every now and then, she glances at me like she wants to say something, but then just smiles and looks away again.
When we turn down her street, she straightens. “You can park out front,” she says, pointing toward a narrow curb beside a brick walk-up. “I’ll just be a minute. I need to check on Olga.”
I nod automatically, warmth curling in my chest. Of course she’d check on her elderly neighbor. It’s such a Sabrina thing—heart first, logic second.
“That’s fine,” I tell her. “But pack enough for a couple nights. We’ll have movers come pick up the rest later in the week.”
She freezes halfway through unbuckling her seatbelt, turning to stare at me. “Pack for a couple nights?”
“Yes.”
“Langston.” My name comes out half-warning, half-laugh. “I told you, I’m not moving in with you.”
I sigh and glance over, taking in her stubborn jaw, the fire already building in her eyes. God, she’s infuriating. And beautiful.
Before she can start arguing again, I reach across the console and take her face in my hands.
Her breath catches.
I just look at her for a moment—really look. That spark, that fight, that hint of fear she’s trying so hard to hide.
Then I lean forward and press a kiss to her forehead. “Sweetheart,” I murmur, voice low, “pack for a few days.”
Her lips part like she’s about to argue again, but she doesn’t. She just sits there, wide-eyed and quiet, as I pull back.
I grab my phone from the dash, swipe it open, and scroll through my emails like nothing happened.
“Go on,” I say, eyes on the screen, voice even. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”
She huffs, muttering something about controlling billionaires and bossy husbands as she gets out of the car.
And I can’t help the small grin that pulls at my mouth.
Because underneath all that defiance… she’s still blushing.
I scroll through emails while she’s inside, half my mind on work, half on the apartment door.
Two deals waiting on my signature. One contract that needs rewriting. The usual noise.
I fire off replies, confirm numbers with my assistant, then open a new message to Mabel.
Me:
Everything on track for tonight?
Her reply comes less than a minute later.
Mabel:
Floors polished. Flowers delivered. Dining room finished. You’ll have a home fit for a wife by dinner, Mr. Blackwell.
I smile faintly. She’s been with my family for years—sharp as a whip and terrifying when she wants to be.
Me:
We’ll be there this evening. Make sure there’s food waiting. Something she’ll like.
Mabel:
Understood. I’ll handle it.
I’m about to close the thread when movement catches my eye.
A tiny old woman with a gray bun and a floral cardigan shuffles down the sidewalk, clutching a leash. At the other end of it trots a scrappy little dog with a pink bow.
She glances toward my car. I lift a polite hand.
Her glare could cut glass.
I let my hand drop and mutter, “Guess that’s Olga.”
Fifteen more minutes pass before the building door opens again.
And then—
Sabrina steps out.
She’s dressed simple: a fitted cream sweater that brushes her hips, high-waisted denim shorts that show off miles of long, freckled legs, and white sneakers that somehow make her look both soft and dangerous. Her hair’s loose, catching in the sunlight like fire.
She’s carrying a small duffel, nothing fancy. Just her.
And for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
No makeup. No pretense. Just Sabrina—beautiful in a way that doesn’t try to be.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel.
I’ve seen models, actresses, women polished to perfection for cameras and business deals. But none of them ever hit me like this.
Like she’s not just beautiful—she’s alive.
I drive us out past the edge of the city where the noise fades into something softer. Miles of open space, winding trails, and blooming gardens tucked into the kind of hidden spot you only find by accident or money.
Sabrina’s been pressed to the window since we turned off the highway, her red hair catching light like flame every time the sun hits it. When we park and step out, she inhales deep—like she’s been waiting to breathe fresh air all her life.
“This is… beautiful,” she says softly.
I glance over at her. “I figured you’d like it.”
“You figured right.” She grins. “You don’t seem like the walking-garden type, though.”
“I’m not,” I admit. “But you are.”
That earns me a side glance and the faintest blush before she starts walking ahead, her hand trailing along a line of blooming hydrangeas.
We walk for a while without saying much. The quiet here isn’t uncomfortable—it’s steady, peaceful.
Eventually, she speaks. “My sister used to love gardens. Ariana. She’s always been softer than me.”
The way she says it makes me slow my pace.
“You love her,” I say quietly.
“More than anything.” She stops, looking down at the gravel path. “It’s just… complicated. Growing up, after my mom died, my dad remarried fast. His new wife—Ariana’s mom—she was different. Strict. Cold. I think she saw me as a reminder of everything my dad had before her.”
I stay quiet, letting her talk.
Sabrina’s voice softens. “Ariana got all the love I used to know. And she deserved it—God, she’s sweet—but part of me still hated that I was outside of it. I promised myself she’d never feel that kind of emptiness.”
That hits harder than I expect. There’s something raw in her honesty—no sugarcoating, no self-pity. Just truth.
“You did good by her,” I say. “She’s lucky to have you.”
Her eyes meet mine for a second, and I can see she believes me. That matters more than I thought it would.
She changes the subject a few minutes later, probably sensing the weight sitting between us. “Tell me about your parents.”
I sigh. “Strained, but fine. My father expects a lot. Always has. My mother… she’s gentler. Keeps him from driving me insane. We don’t always see eye to eye, but they’re good people. They raised me right.”
She smiles faintly. “I can tell.”
We keep walking, trading pieces of ourselves in the rhythm of the afternoon. It’s easy. Uncomplicated.
Eventually, she looks at me again. “The guys from the bar—your friends. You’ve known them a long time, haven’t you?”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling at the memory. “College. First day, actually. We were all shoved into this miserable icebreaker activity, and somehow we ended up getting kicked out of it together. Instant friendship through shared punishment.”
Sabrina laughs, the sound low and bright. “Of course you did.”
I nod. “Coleman’s the calm one. Dean’s the loud one. Harvey’s the smartass. Nathan’s the one who tries to keep us out of trouble.”
“And you?”
“The one who pays the bail when we ignore Nathan.”
She snorts. “Sounds about right.”
We find a bench near the water, and I sit while she perches next to me, pulling her knees up slightly.
I tell her about Coleman’s twins—Paige and Payton—and how they have the whole group wrapped around their fingers. How they call me Uncle Lang sometimes when they want something. How Coleman pretends to hate it but secretly loves it.
“They’re like my nieces,” I say, smiling faintly. “Bright little monsters who can talk me into anything.”
Sabrina leans her chin on her knees, smiling softly. “You’re good with kids?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You are,” she says quietly, like she’s already decided it for me.
The sunlight catches in her hair again, and something in my chest tightens.
For the first time since we met, I’m not thinking about deals or legacy or what this marriage was supposed to be.
I’m just thinking about how right it feels sitting next to her.
Like maybe this was always where I was supposed to end up.
We keep walking through the garden long after we’ve run out of things to talk about. The air smells faintly of rain and magnolia, and sunlight flickers through the trees, hitting her hair like copper fire.
I can’t stop watching her.
Every time she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear or tips her head to look at the flowers, I feel my restraint crack a little more.
I’ve always prided myself on control—every word, every deal, every movement measured. But with Sabrina, it’s different. The more I tell myself to keep my distance, the more I find reasons to touch her.
A brush of my fingers at the small of her back when she steps over a puddle. My hand catching her elbow when she stumbles on a stray stone. Each small touch feels like a shock under my skin, something primal that doesn’t belong to logic.
She glances back at me after the third time, eyes narrowing slightly. “You know, I can walk on my own.”
“Didn’t say you couldn’t,” I murmur, close enough for her to hear the edge in my voice.
She huffs out a breath and starts forward again, her steps quicker this time. But a few yards later, her foot slips slightly on the gravel. I reach for her instinctively, my hand closing around hers before she even steadies herself.
Warm. Soft. Small against my palm.
She tries to pull back, muttering something under her breath, but I don’t let go.
My thumb strokes over the back of her hand once—light, unintentional, but it makes her stop. She looks up at me, brows lifted, waiting for me to release her.
I don’t.
I don’t want to.
I’ve never been a man who holds hands. Not with dates, not with lovers. It always felt too intimate, too exposed. But with Sabrina, it feels different. Like it’s not a weakness—it’s a claim.
Her pulse flutters in her wrist, quick and shallow, and I know she feels it too.
After a moment, she lets out a quiet sigh and stops trying to pull away.
We walk like that for the rest of the path—our fingers tangled, our steps matched. I tell myself it’s nothing, that it’s just a reflex. But I know better.
Because every time her hand tightens just slightly in mine, something in my chest loosens.
By the time the sun starts to dip, painting everything in gold, I realize something I shouldn’t.
This—her laughter, her warmth, her hand in mine—feels dangerously close to happiness.
And I don’t remember the last time I felt that.