Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Olivia
By the time I get home, the pride I felt earlier is gone, replaced with the tight, crawling kind of panic that starts in your chest and sinks down your spine.
My rent extension is overdue.
The elevator dings, and I step inside, scrolling through my apps before I even breathe.
If I can just pay it tonight, before the late fee triggers again, maybe I’ll still have enough to send something to Mama. Even a little.
The doors slide open on my floor and I nearly slam into Brody.
“Hey, Liv,” he says, flashing that tired but easy smile of his.
It takes me a second to notice the sleek black roller bag in his hand, a travel tag flapping against the side.
I nod toward it. “You going somewhere?”
He shifts the handle up. “Yeah. Seattle. War’s orders.”
My brows knit. “Seattle? I thought it was California. And that wasn’t for another month.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, too casual. “He changed his mind. Wants me to help an associate of his first, then I’ll head off to Cali.”
I pause. “You okay with that?”
Another shrug. Lighter this time, like he’s brushing it off. “Doesn’t matter if I am, right?”
There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes, resentment, maybe. But he covers it with a grin. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” I say softly. “And… safe trip.”
“Thanks, Liv.”
He gives me a wink before stepping into the elevator.
I turn toward my door, digging for my keys, pulse still unsettled.
My fingers fumble through my purse until I find them, sitting in the front pocket.
I freeze.
I never put them there.
A chill licks down my spine, but I shove it off, telling myself I must have been distracted this morning. Still, my hand trembles as I slide the key into the lock.
Inside, the silence hits like a wall.
I drop my purse on the counter, toss the keys next to it, and collapse onto the couch, pulling up the rent app again.
Loading…
System currently under maintenance. Please try again later.
I blink. Tap it again.
Same screen.
What the hell? Since when do leasing apps go down for maintenance?
Annoyed, I open my contacts and hit Mama.
She answers on the second ring, her voice soft and warm. “Hey, Liv Bug.”
“Hey, Mama,” I exhale, rubbing my temple. “Just checking in. Everything okay, how’s the inn?”
She pauses, like she’s trying to decide how much truth to give me.
“We scraped together enough to pay the quarter,” she finally says. “But next one… I don’t know, sweetheart. We’ll do what we can.”
I close my eyes. “I got a raise,” I say quickly. “A small one, but it’ll help. I’ll send some money this week.”
Her voice softens. “Livvy, no. You’ve done more than enough.”
“You’re my family, mom. Getting money for the inn… it’s the whole reason I’m here.”
“I’d rather have you than your money,” she says gently. “You know that, right?”
My heart stutters.
I stare at the apartment, the small chrome kitchen, the whitewashed walls, the fancy office shoes still sitting by the door. It all feels borrowed.
Like none of it really belongs to me.
“I know,” I whisper. “I just… I’m trying.”
“I know you are,” she says. Then I hear my brother Dean’s voice in the background, loud and teasing.
“Tell her I saved the last of the cobbler!” he shouts. “But only if she comes home and eats it herself.”
A small laugh escapes me. “He’s still holding me hostage over dessert?”
“He’s still got that sweet tooth, that’s for sure.”
I sigh, my heart ebbing. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Love you, Liv Bug.”
“Love you too.”
I end the call and sink back against the couch, phone limp in my hand.
The app still won’t open.
But the pit in my stomach already has.
Something isn’t right.
I push myself off the couch, exhaustion dragging at my bones.
Maybe a shower. Maybe just pajamas and lights out.
In my bedroom, I pause.
Something feels… off.
The faintest trace of scent lingers in the air, smoky, expensive, masculine.
But it’s familiar.
My pulse spikes.
Warren.
I shake my head. No. That’s insane.
I tug at my blouse and sniff. It’s probably his cologne lingering to my clothes.
I cross to the nightstand to plug in my phone and freeze again. The picture frame, my brothers, arms slung over my shoulders at my graduation, lies face down.
I don’t remember knocking it over.
A chill crawls up my spine.
I right the frame carefully, staring at our frozen smiles, before forcing a breath past the lump in my throat. “You’re losing it, Olivia,” I mutter under my breath. “Losing it.”
I move quickly after that, shed my clothes, shower, slip into cotton pajamas, brush my teeth with shaky hands. The routines help.
Anchor me.
By the time I crawl into bed, I tell myself I’m just overtired. Stressed. That my imagination is playing tricks on me.
Still… the expensive scent clings to the room.
And I leave the lamp on when I finally close my eyes.
***
Warren isn’t here yet. Which is… odd.
I glance at the clock on my monitor.
8 A.M. Sharp.
For a man who rules this building like a kingdom, his absence feels wrong.
His door stays closed. My inbox pings with a single email.
No greeting. No signature. Just a bulleted list of tasks.
I roll my eyes, but dive in. It’s easier to breathe without his stare burning through me.
Easier to focus when I’m not hyper-aware of every flick of his attention.
By the time the clock slides past noon, I’ve almost forgotten the nerves that usually strangle me. The door opens.
He strides in, silent, sure, carrying a small, sleek black box.
Not files. Not a folder. A box.
He sets it on my desk. No explanation. No movement. Just presence. Heavy with intent.
I hesitate. My fingers twitch toward it, then still.
His voice cuts through the air. Low. Calm. Absolute.
“You may open it.”
I swallow and lift the lid.
Perfume. Name-brand.
The real version of the imitation I’ve worn for years. My favorite scent, but one I could never afford.
My pulse stutters. “Why… why would you buy this for me?”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t soften. His eyes pin me, sharp and unrelenting.
“Appreciation. For what you found yesterday.”
The zoning loophole. The one that made him go still for one impossible second.
“Oh,” I whisper. My fingers curl around the cool glass, but it feels heavier than perfume should. Loaded. Like a test I haven’t studied for.
“Use it,” he says. Not a suggestion. Not even a gift. A command.
My head nods before I can think. “Okay.”
Silence stretches. His eyes drag over me, unblinking.
My throat works. “Oh—you mean… now?”
He doesn’t answer. Just waits.
Heat floods my cheeks as I pull the cap free, misting my throat. The scent clings instantly; expensive, consuming, undeniably real.
I look back up at him, startled by how intimate it feels.
His lips lift, barely there. Not quite a smile. Something darker.
“Good.”
He stays standing. Watching me.
And for a moment, I don’t know what to do with my hands. My face. My breath.
So I look down.
“Your memo,” he says. “The one I asked for.”
My eyes flick back up. “I emailed—”
The look he gives me stops the words in my throat.
No softness. Just a slow blink.
I move quick, like a child caught doing something wrong. Fumble open the drawer, grab the printout, and slide it across my desk.
He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t even glance at the chair across from me.
Just flips the first page open, scans it once, and places it flat again. Closer to me.
“Summarize.”
The word lands hard. No lift, no question mark. Just expectation.
“Now?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His jaw moves once. That’s all it takes.
I swallow. “Section 3.4b is a dormant clause filed five years ago, it allows a historic-use exemption for the Parker Building. If it’s filed under a community reinvestment incentive before the quarter closes, the city will fast-track all variances. I also—”
I stop.
Because he’s moving.
Behind me.
His cologne hits first, dark spice and smoke and something ruinously expensive.
Then the warmth of his body.
Then his hand, palm resting on the back of my chair, fingers brushing the fabric right behind my neck.
I stop breathing.
“Keep going,” he says.
I force the words out. “I also highlighted a tax deferment opportunity that correlates with the variance if the filing is backdated—”
“Not bad,” he murmurs, closer now. I feel it in the shell of my ear. “But not good enough.”
He reaches forward. Nudges closer to my keyboard.
“Open your draft,” he says.
I do.
The cursor blinks at the conclusion. My hands hover.
“There,” he says, and his finger brushes the screen. “You hedge. ‘Possibility.’ ‘Potentially.’ Words for people who apologize when they speak.”
I freeze.
“Delete them,” he commands.
My chest tightens, I want to push back. To ask why it matters.
But instead… I press delete.
“Better,” he says.
He doesn’t step away.
His other hand settles, barely, on the back of my chair again. Not touching me. Not quite. But I feel it anyway. Heat pooling low in my belly, tight and wrong and… addictive.
“Rewrite the closing,” he says, his voice low. “Take out the last sentence. Make the second the last. Add a timestamp.”
I type.
He watches.
I feel his breath.
The heat of his body.
His scent consuming me.
I feel his restraint.
And I’m unraveling.
Finally, he steps back.
I exhale like I’ve been holding it in for hours.
“Confidence sells,” he says, eyes still on my screen. “Don’t forget it.”
I finish adjusting the language.
Just enough edge. Just enough polish.
His breath is close behind me, silent, but heavy. Watching.
When I click save, print. I wait.
For his approval. For his silence.
I don’t know which will be worse.
He doesn’t speak right away. Just reaches past me, brushing the edge of my chair as he takes the printed memo from the tray.
Reads it in two heartbeats.
Then:
“Good work.”
I take a breath, relieved.
But before I can thank him, his voice cuts again—cool, decisive.
“Let’s get lunch.”