2. Paige #2
"Morning," I manage, my voice barely louder than the clink of silverware against porcelain.
"Morning." His reply is rough, like gravel under boots, and the way his gaze lingers on my face sends a shiver down my spine.
I sit down, and one of the housekeepers glides in, her soft-soled shoes whispering against the hardwood as she sets a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs and buttered toast in front of me.
The scent of coffee and warm bread wraps around me, but my appetite's long gone. She slips out just as quietly, leaving us in the kind of silence that's never been this heavy before.
Paxton clears his throat, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. "Hungry?"
The question is innocent enough, but my cheeks burn like I've been caught doing something I shouldn't. "I... yeah."
He nods, slow and deliberate, like he's weighing every unspoken thing between us. "Good."
Another silence.
I stab my fork into the eggs, watching the tines sink into the yellow curds. Anything to avoid looking at him. "So," I blurt, desperate to fill the quiet, "Nathan said the gardeners are replanting the roses."
"They started a week ago." His voice is steady, controlled, but there's an edge to it, like he's holding back.
"I must have not been aware." The words tumble out, and I want to kick myself. Must have not? Really?
"They'll be finished by Friday."
"That's amazing." Brilliant, Paige. Just brilliant. We're discussing flowers, and you say it's amazing.
We lapse into silence again, the kind that's thick enough to choke on. Paxton lifts his mug, the steam curling around his fingers as he takes a slow sip. "The weather's supposed to cool down this weekend."
"I heard about that." My fingers tighten around the fork, knuckles whitening.
I can't help it. My gaze flickers up, just for a second, and of course, he's already watching me. Our eyes lock, and neither of us looks away. The air between us crackles, charged and electric, and my breath hitches.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, unbidden, and for a second, I swear his lips twitch too.
"I don't think I'm very good at pretending nothing happened," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
"No." His answer is immediate. "You're terrible at it."
A nervous laugh bubbles up, and I cover my face with one hand, groaning. "I was trying to talk about roses."
"Must have not?"
"Shut up. And the weather."
"I was just following your lead."
I peek at him through my fingers, and the ghost of a smirk plays on his lips. It's gone before I can be sure, but it's enough to make my chest feel like it's going to burst. He's just as off-balance as I am. That shouldn't make me feel better, but it does.
Paxton sets his coffee down with a quiet clink, the sound echoing in the too-large room. "So..."
"So?" I echo, dropping my hand to my lap. My fingers twist in the hem of my sweater, the fabric bunching under my nails.
He leans forward, elbows braced on the table, his emerald eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "About last night," he starts, his voice low, rough around the edges.
My lashes flutter against my cheeks, the weight of his words pressing down like a physical touch. The air in the room shifts, thickens, something electric humming beneath my skin.
"Did you manage to get what you wanted?" His question lingers between us, heavy with implication, and my mind races to catch up.
I blink. "What?" The word slips out, too breathy, too uncertain. My fingers dig into the fabric of my sweater, knuckles whitening as I grip the hem like it's the only thing keeping me grounded.
"The reason you wanted me to wake you at midnight."
My stomach sinks. "Oh." The word is barely a whisper, a breath of air that does nothing to fill the silence stretching between us.
I completely forgot.
I laugh softly, shaking my head. "No. It sold out."
"I guess it's my fault you missed it."
"It's fine," I murmur, but the words feel too small, too weak. I clear my throat, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "I mean, I didn't really need it."
He studies me for a moment, his emerald eyes tracing the curve of my jaw, the way my fingers still clutch at the hem of my sweater like it's the only thing tethering me to the present.
The silence between us isn't uncomfortable—it's charged, like the air before a storm, heavy with things left unsaid. Then, finally, he speaks, his voice low and deliberate. "What was it?"
I exhale, my shoulders relaxing just a fraction.
"A limited-edition art print. One of those things that's only released in a tiny batch, and once it's gone, it's gone for good.
" I glance down at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with my fingertip.
"I saw it online a few weeks ago and thought…
I don't know. It was beautiful. Something I'd want to hang in my room, maybe. "
His expression doesn't change, but I can see the wheels turning behind those sharp green eyes. "And they won't restock?"
I shrug my shoulders, exaggerating the motion for effect, my lips quirking into a half-smile. "Maybe. Maybe the will."
He leans back in his chair, the wood creaking slightly under his weight. The movement is slow, deliberate, like he's giving himself time to process. "Send me the details."
I frown, my brow furrowing. "Why?"
His gaze doesn't waver. "I'll find one."
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, disbelieving. "You don't have to do that."
"I'm going to."
I shake my head, my fingers tightening around the fabric of my sweater again. "You really don't. It's not a big deal. I'll live."
"I wasn't asking."
I roll my eyes, but there's no real heat behind it. "You don't have to."
His lips twitch, just for a second, like he's fighting a smile. "I want to."
I can't help it, I smile despite myself, the tension in my chest easing just a little. "If you somehow manage to find one…" I trail off, letting the words hang between us like a challenge.
"I will."
I huff, but there's no real annoyance in it. "…Then I guess I owe you."
His emerald eyes settle on mine, unblinking, intense. "You do. Because you'll have it by today."
A flutter dances through my chest, light and insistent, like the wings of something just learning to fly. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. "What do you want?"
His answer comes without hesitation, his voice steady and sure. "The same arrangement."
I stare at him, my pulse quickening. "What arrangement?"
His gaze doesn't falter. "I want to be your alarm clock. If that's still what you want."
It is. The thought is immediate, unbidden, but no less true for it. That's why I wrote it in the first place.
I toy with the edge of my napkin, the paper crinkling under my fingers as I pick at the frayed edge. "I was actually going to bring it up," I admit, my voice quieter than I intended. "After last night, I thought… maybe I should. Just to make sure we're on the same page."
His brows lift, just slightly, like he's surprised I'd even consider the alternative.
"I meant what I wrote." I force myself to hold his gaze, even as my cheeks warm. "And if… if I don't wake up next time…" The words feel clumsy, stumbling over themselves. I take a breath, steadying myself. "You don't have to stop just because I'm still asleep."
The room falls quiet. Not awkward, not this time. Different.
The air between us hums with something new, something fragile and bright, like the first light of dawn breaking over the horizon.
He watches me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before giving a single, slow nod.
Something settles between us then. Not uncertainty anymore. Not doubt.
Trust.