Chapter 21
Katherine
Kath strode into the break room, her mind already whirring with the details for the upcoming meeting.
She had her notes organized, arguments prepared, and a fresh cup of coffee would be the final touch to ensure she was operating at peak efficiency.
Professional. Focused. She was not thinking about Ben, his fingers or anything else that could potentially derail her concentration.
Balancing her mug and files, she reached for the coffee pot, mentally reviewing her key points one last time. The familiar scent of the dark roast filled her senses as she poured, the motion practiced and grounding. She was ready to conquer this meeting.
Kath froze, her grip tightening on the coffee pot. Her heart stuttered, skipping a beat before slamming back into a frantic rhythm. The word hung in the air, innocent yet loaded, dredging up memories and sensations she had been determinedly ignoring.
She drew in a slow breath, forcing herself to remain impassive. It was just a name. It meant nothing. She could handle this.
But then Ben's measured tones cut through her fragile composure. "Huh. What's this one called again?"
A lead weight materialized in her stomach as Katherine's eyes snapped up, meeting his gaze. He looked perfectly at ease, casual curiosity on his features. But she knew better than to trust that facade.
Before she could spiral further, Patty's laugh broke the tension, oblivious to the sudden charge in the air. "Seriously?
It's a blondie, Mr. Sinclair."
Kath's posture tightened as she stared daggers at her coffee, as if the innocent beverage had personally offended her. She took a sip, the bitter liquid scorching her tongue, grounding her. Her gaze dropped to the swirl of cream that hadn’t fully mixed—like the day couldn’t decide what the hell it wanted to be.
One second of quiet. Of pretending none of it mattered.
She stared into the cup.
And then—
"Sweet."
That one word from Ben hit her like a slap across the face. Her breath caught in her throat, her carefully organized thoughts scattering.
Gathering her files with stiff, precise movements, Kath fought to regain her controlled demeanor. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
You need to focus. You still have that case review in ten minutes. Stop being ridiculous.
She walked out of the break room, head held high, hands steady on the surface. But inside, she was spiraling, Ben's loaded comment reverberating through her mind, dredging up memories and sensations she had been trying so hard to ignore.
Now, ten minutes later, Katherine sat across from Ben, the open file in front of her a mere prop. She should have been thinking about contracts, settlements, numbers—the very foundation of her profession. Instead, her treacherous gaze kept straying to his hands.
The way his pen rolled between his fingers, the pad of his thumb tapping an idle rhythm, the casual brush of his index finger across his jaw. And when his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, Kath's breath caught in her throat.
Because she remembered.
Vividly.
Those fingers between her thighs, stroking her to the edge and past it, slow and sure like he’d done it a thousand times before. Her body flushed at the memory, warmth crawling under her skin like fire with nowhere to go.
Ben flexed his hand absently, rolling his wrist with a slight grimace. Then, almost like he was talking to himself, he muttered, "Huh. Might’ve overdone it last night."
The words were casual. Offhand. But they detonated in her mind like a thrown match on dry kindling.
Kath's pen paused mid-word. A breath lodged in her throat.
Her eyes flicked up to his face—cool, unreadable, not even a twitch betraying intent. Just a man reviewing legal clauses like he hadn’t just detonated a landmine under the table.
Her grip tightened on her pen until her knuckles whitened.
It wasn’t confirmation. It wasn’t even a hint.
But God, it sounded like confession.
And now her body was a live wire, thrumming with memory, her legs crossing tightly beneath the table, as if that could contain the reaction he wasn’t even pretending to notice.
You're in a meeting. Get it together.
Kath forced her eyes back to the file, blinking hard, trying to follow the numbers blurring on the page. Trying not to think about how his hand had felt. How deep. How precise.
But it was too late. One offhand comment and she was wrecked again.
She didn’t get far before the next distraction found her.
Kath returned to her desk, settlement terms forgotten the moment Joshua appeared. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, that easy grin lighting up his face.
"You look like you're having a blast," he teased, nodding at the stack of documents on her desk.
Kath rolled her eyes, but couldn't fight the smile tugging at her lips. "Absolute thrill ride. Nothing says 'party' like reviewing settlement clauses for three straight hours."
Joshua chuckled, sliding into the chair beside her desk.
His knee bumped against hers as he settled in—casual, thoughtless, friendly. "You know what normal people do when they're bored? They take breaks."
"Is that what you're doing right now? Taking a break from actual work?"
"Nah." His grin widened, that golden-boy charm on full display. "I'm performing a vital service. Saving Katherine Winters from death by paperwork."
Kath laughed despite herself, the tension from the meeting with Ben melting away under Joshua's warmth.
Then she felt it—that prickle at the back of her neck.
The awareness of being watched.
Her eyes lifted instinctively.
Ben stood across the office floor, gaze steady on her.
Not staring. Not glaring. Just... aware. Dangerous. Their eyes met for half a second, but it hit like a live wire, electricity crackling through her veins.
Then Ben moved. Calm. Smooth. Strategic. He walked right over to Lydia Carson's desk, his stride purposeful and unhurried.
Lydia smiled up at him. Bright. Eager. Unbothered.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as Ben leaned in—close. Too close. He said something low, intimate. Too quiet for Kath to hear. Too close for it to be meaningless.
Kath yanked her gaze back to her screen. Hard.
She did not care.
You have actual problems to deal with, Winters. You're not in high school. Get back to work.
She opened the settlement draft, forcing herself to focus. Line by line. Clause by clause. Someone laughed across the hall. A phone rang, then stopped. Normal sounds. Everyday office noise. The kind that should’ve drowned out the pulse behind her ribs.
But it didn’t. Not when she could still feel the ghost of Ben’s voice in her ear.
◆◆◆
Kath shoved the last file into her bag, her shoulders dropping with the weight of the day. Movements were mechanical, driven by the single desperate need to escape the suffocating walls of Sinclair & Associates.
That was a ridiculous fucking day.
Her brain was already halfway to her couch, to the bottle of wine chilling in her fridge, to the blessed silence of her apartment where no one would be watching her, analyzing her, playing whatever twisted game Ben had decided they were playing.
The office had emptied around her, most associates long gone. She'd stayed late deliberately, hoping to avoid... this exact moment.
Footsteps sounded behind her. Measured. Familiar.
The cadence unmistakable.
She didn't turn. It was Ben.
He didn't pass her. Didn't fall back. Just stayed close. Like a shadow that was deciding whether or not to wrap around her throat.
The elevator dinged its arrival. Kath stepped inside, jabbing the button for the lobby with more force than necessary.
The doors began to slide closed, and for a moment, she thought she might escape.
For a moment, he stood silently beside her in the elevator. Then she felt it—the subtle shift of air as he leaned in, just enough for his voice to reach her.
“You always smell like vanilla, Winters. Why is that?”
His tone was low, casual, but the words brushed against her like heat.
Kath’s spine stiffened. Her heart stuttered against her ribs, her body remembering too much—his mouth, his hands, the way he made her fall apart.
“It’s just lotion,” she said, her voice flat, carefully neutral.
Ben hummed—soft, unreadable.
And then the elevator doors opened, and he stepped out—calm, collected, as if none of it meant a thing.
The elevator doors started to close again.
Kath just stood there, staring at the metal in front of her, heat rising in her chest, her pulse still a staccato throb beneath her skin.
Then—belatedly—she moved, reaching out with one hand to stop the doors just before they sealed.
They jerked open, and she stepped out too.
What the fuck was that?