Chapter 35
Alex
I had officially taken over Carrie’s lounge, and for the last few hours, I had been a woman possessed.
She had acted like a literal supervillain when I first brought up doing something nice for Valentine’s Day, but she had completely melted the previous week.
When I snuggled into her arms over morning coffee and asked if she’d be my Valentine, she had fought so hard to keep a straight face—and hide her blush—that I fell in love with her all over again.
So there I was, feeling like a giddy teenager as I executed my master plan.
And yes, I completely caved and used her credit card.
She had insisted with that unyielding "don't argue with me" authority she had, and honestly?
I had lost all my resistance the moment I realised I could order hand-dipped, dark chocolate strawberries from the artisanal bakery I had spent months admiring from the window.
But not that year. That was all romance and sentiment, and since I didn't really know how to do "subtle," I had decided to go absolutely fucking mental. Carrie had a late in-person meeting for one of her businesses—she was furious and incredibly apologetic about the timing—but her absence gave me the window I needed. She’d given me a key so I could let myself in, and something stirred deep inside me when I took it.
It was a practical necessity for that night, but a small voice in my head kept wondering: Would she ask for it back?
When I had arrived earlier, I was greeted by a bewildered Richard, who was trudging upstairs in sweats with a mountain of food. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he thought better of it and scurried back to his cave. Good. I wasn't in the mood for small talk.
I stood back then, hands on my hips, surveying the damage.
It looked like St. fucking Valentine himself had thrown up in there.
I had helium heart balloons, streamers, and a banner that said ‘Will you be my Valentine?’ draped across the room.
I had practically carpeted the place in rose petals, even going so far as to arrange them in a heart shape on the rug in front of her bed.
There were vases of red roses everywhere—I definitely went over the top—and the coffee table was buried under a massive charcuterie board of cured meats and strawberries.
I had watched about fifty TikToks to make sure it looked expensive.
St. Valentine hadn't just claimed the room; he had claimed me, too. My hair and makeup were pristine, and I had even spent a chunk of Carrie’s money on some lingerie.
I had never worn the stuff in my life, but I knew she was going to lose her fucking mind.
It was a deep red lace set with a garter belt and stockings, currently hidden under a matching silk robe just in case Richard decided to make an unwelcome appearance.
I took a deep breath and poured two glasses of champagne, my hands shaking slightly as I listened for the sound of her car in the drive. She’d be home any minute.
I started to fidget, the silence of the house magnifying my nerves.
How was I supposed to wait for her? Did I just stand in the middle of the room like a decorative statue?
No, that was fucking weird. I tried sitting on the large sofa, but then my back was to the door and I’d miss the look on her face when she walked in.
I moved to the side sofa, but I couldn't figure out how to sit without looking like I was waiting for a bus or a fucking dental appointment.
I retreated to the middle of the room again, heart hammering against my ribs. "Get it together, Alex," I whispered.
I paced over to the fireplace—having finally conquered the remote—and tried leaning against the mantel in a pose I hoped looked effortlessly seductive. Then I caught my reflection in the glass above it and immediately cringed. Jesus, you look like a complete fucking idiot.
Finally, I settled into the armchair by the fire.
It was the perfect vantage point. From here, I could see the door clearly, and the fire cast a warm, flickering glow over the red silk of my robe.
I picked up my champagne flute, adjusted the hem of the silk over my knee, and took a steadying breath.
Okay. This was it. Regal. Poised. Not about to fucking throw up.
The distant hum of a car engine vibrated through the floorboards. The headlights swept across the front window, and my stomach performed a slow, agonising somersault. The heavy thud of the car door closing was followed by the rhythmic click of heels on the driveway—a sound I’d recognise anywhere.
I heard the key turn in the lock. The front door opened, and the cold night air rushed in for a split second before the door clicked shut again.
I heard her heavy sigh, the sound of someone who had had a long, exhausting day of being a powerful woman, followed by the soft rustle of her coat being hung up and heels being kicked off.
The silence in the lounge was so fucking heavy I could practically hear the bubbles popping in my champagne glass. I heard her footsteps move past the lounge toward the kitchen.
"Alex? Darling, are you here?"
Her voice was tired, but it carried that melodic edge that always made my skin prickle. I didn't answer. I stayed perfectly still in the armchair, my fingers white-knuckled around the stem of my glass, wanting—needing—her to find me on her own.
I heard her turn back. The footsteps grew louder, more deliberate, until they stopped right outside the lounge door. The handle turned with a soft, mechanical click, and the door swung open.
Carrie stood in the doorway, the light from the hallway silhouetting her frame.
Her face was a mask of perfect neutrality, but her eyes were moving.
Fuck, my stomach was doing a stupid flip.
They swept over the helium balloons bobbing against the ceiling, the explosion of rose petals on the floor, the massive charcuterie board, and the "Will You Be My Valentine?
" banner draped across her pristine walls.
Finally, her gaze landed on me.
She didn't move. Her hand stayed frozen on the door handle, her knuckles turning white against the polished metal. In an instant, all the confident poise I’d been practicing evaporated, leaving me chewing nervously on my lower lip as I searched her face for a reaction.
For one terrifying second, I was convinced I’d completely crossed a line—that the ruthless supervillain in her was going to despise the clutter and the sheer, unadulterated sentimentality of it all.
The fire crackled, a log shifting in the grate, and the orange light danced across the silk of my robe. Carrie’s eyes dropped, taking in the flash of red lace at my thigh where the silk had parted, and her pupils blew fucking wide until her eyes were almost entirely black.
Her chest rose and fell in a sharp, shallow breath, and the hand on the doorknob tightened until the wood groaned.
"Alex," she breathed, and my name had never sounded so much like a prayer and a threat all at once.
"Happy Valentine's Day," I managed to whisper, the words feeling small and shy against the sudden, heavy silence of the room.
Carrie didn't say a word. She reached back, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that made my pulse spike.
She began to cross the room toward me, moving with that slow, predatory grace that usually made me want to bolt—or, you know, fucking kneel.
She was still in her work clothes: high-waisted trousers that rustled softly with every step and a light blue button-down tucked in with surgical precision.
Her sleeves were rolled up, exposing her forearms, and her hair was still pinned in that tight, professional clip, though a few stray strands had escaped to frame her face.
As she neared the armchair, my body reacted before my brain could.
I stood up automatically, my legs feeling like fucking jelly.
The movement caused the silk of my robe to shift, the belt loosening just enough for the fabric to part.
The deep red lace of the lingerie—and the pale skin it barely covered—flashed in the firelight.
Carrie stopped inches away from me. The scent of her perfume, mixed with the faint metallic tang of the cold night air, hit me like a physical blow. She didn't look at the balloons or the roses anymore. She looked only at me.
Her hand came up, her fingers ghosting over the lapel of my robe. She didn't pull it open; she just hooked one finger into the silk, her knuckles grazing the curve of my collarbone.
"You did all of this," she murmured, her voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that vibrated in my chest. "With my card. In my house. While I was stuck in a boardroom."
She leaned in closer, her breath warm against my ear. "Do you have any idea what it does to me, Alex? Finding you waiting here like a prize I haven't quite earned yet?"
I swallowed hard, my heart hammering against the lace of my bra. "I... I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted to show you..."
Carrie reached out, cupping my cheek so softly that the panic and nerves just drifted away. I bit my lip as she closed the gap, kissing me with a tenderness so profound I found myself wanting to chase her lips when she pulled back. The soft smile on her face stole what was left of my breath.
“Alex, just coming home to you is the most incredible feeling,” she said, her gaze sweeping the room again. “But this... I’ve never had anyone do something like this for me before.”
I could tell she was chewing the inside of her cheek then—that rare, soft side of her that made me absolutely fucking melt. Keeping the champagne glass steady in one hand, I wrapped my other arm around her waist and pulled her closer, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.
“You deserve all of it, my love," I whispered.