Chapter 50
Harper
Sparks seem to sizzle when our eyes connect.
Little shivers of anticipation squeeze my chest. My pulse flutters like the wings of a bee.
My throat is so dry, I need to take another sip of the wine to soothe it.
The liquid slides down smoothly and sets off a tingle of fire in my belly.
Yeah, it’s the alcohol that’s making my head spin and my fingers feel numb.
It’s the alcohol that makes my hands tremble.
Enough for me carefully to set down my glass.
This…intimacy of a shared drink after work and exchanging views on what happened in the restaurant feels dangerously close to us having a relationship.
He’s still the distant, cold, demanding boss at work. But something in him has softened toward me. I feel it in how his fingers often brush mine at work. How I’ve caught him looking at me during the day with a look I can only describe as…possessive?
My heart zings in my chest. A throbbing heat fills the space between my thighs. I swallow. Nope, not going to throw myself at him…again. Only to be rebuffed. Again.
He’s made it clear that he needs time to think things through. And I need to respect that. I need to treat it as a breather. Use the time to keep my wits about myself. Try to stop myself from falling for him further. Ha, like that’s going to be possible.
The way warmth fills my chest when he compliments me shows how much his praise means to me.
I’m already lost in my feelings for him.
His praise doesn’t just make me feel appreciated.
It makes me feel seen. Valued. Like I matter to him in a way that has to do with more than perfect knife cuts or mise en place, et cetera.
I tell myself it's professional. That I admire his expertise. That he's a big influence in my career, and of course, his approval means something.
But that's a lie.
It's not his Michelin stars or being the chef of his new restaurant that I crave. It's the way his voice drops when he says my name. The way his gaze lingers a fraction too long. The way he looks at me like I'm the only thing in the room that isn't a disappointment.
My feelings aren't just caught up in this; they're drowning in it. Professional, personal, and physical. It's all one tangled, suffocating knot I can't untie.
And the worst part? I don't want to.
Which is a sign that I need to continue to keep the space he’s established between us at home. At least, until he’s ready to make what's between us into something more. Or else, I’m in the danger of being caught in a marriage that is real to me…and not so much to him.
I slide off the barstool. "Anyway, thanks for the vote of confidence. I'm gonna hit the sack. G'night."
I walk out, head high, spine straight, very aware that he’s watching my retreat.
Feeling like a coward…but also, knowing this is the right thing to do as a means of self-preservation.
And hoping he’ll stop me. But he doesn’t.
I make it all the way to my room before I close the door and flatten myself against it.
He could have called out to stop me. He could have told me he was beginning to have feelings for me too.
He’s implied it, but really, I want to hear it from him.
To feel his lips on mine showing how much he wants me.
His arms around me, holding me close against that massive chest. I want it so much; I can literally feel his heartbeat against mine. Thump-Thump-Thump.
I’m sure I hear the sound of my heart thumping against my rib cage. Then I realize, there’s someone knocking on the door.
I spin around and open it. And he’s there. Filling the doorway with his shoulders, his larger-than-life presence, his big frame which dwarfs mine and makes me feel delicate and protected. Our gazes meet. His blue eyes flash. There’s lust, need…and something else I can’t identify.
He holds out a glass of wine. "You left this behind."
"Oh." I take it from him.
Our fingers don’t brush against each other, leaving me relieved. And disappointed.
"Thank you."
"You’re welcome." He stays rooted to where he’s standing, and so do I.
Both of us seem reluctant to leave. He continues to stare at me; his gaze filled with so many unsaid emotions.
The air grows thick; my blood feels syrupy.
My limbs begin to feel heavy with the weight of whatever this is between us.
And if he stands here any longer, I’ll do something regretful, like climb him and ask him to fuck me.
I clear my throat. "Was there something else?"
He blinks as if coming out of a trance, composing his features into that mask he prefers to wear at work. Only now that I’ve seen past it, I’ll never be content with anything but seeing the real man.
"We need to plan that public outing, so my investors are satisfied." He drags his fingers through his hair, so the strands stand on end. It’s rare to see him disheveled, but with the dark circles around his eyes and the hollows under his cheekbones, he looks as beat as I feel.
"Right, of course. When…do you want to do it?"
"In a few weeks? There’s an event I’ve been invited to; can you accompany me?"
"Okay." I half smile. "You look tired; you should rest up."
He yawns suddenly. It reinforces the air of vulnerability clinging to him. Strange. I’m not used to seeing James Hamilton this…approachable. Almost adorable. And maybe, a little lost as he dawdles outside my room. Something makes me go up on tiptoe and kiss his whiskered cheek.
“Night, James."
He stiffens.
Before he can react further, I step back inside and shut the door in his face.
Then stand there, shocked. Wow, did I just do that?
I take a sip of my wine, then carry the glass into the en suite. I finish it after my shower and slide into bed. I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow. I’m woken by a sound.
I know what is even before I throw off my covers. I’m on my feet and moving toward James’ bedroom before I can stop myself. I reach his door and hear another low cry from within. It tears my heart in half and spurs me to step inside his room and head toward his bed.
Sure enough, he’s gripping the sheets with his clenched hands. The veins on his forearms stand out. The tendons on his throat seem ready to snap. Sweat beads his chest.
I know better than trying to wake him up after last time, so I keep my distance and call out his name.
"James?"
He continues to breathe heavily and mutter in his sleep. Words I can’t make out. His forehead is furrowed. The scar on his cheekbone seems to stand out against the whiteness of his skin. He flexes his shoulders, every part of his body going rigid.
"James, wake up." I clap my hands.
Nothing. His breathing grows choppy, his nostrils flare.
"You’re having a nightmare,” I raise my voice.
He makes a low noise, one filled with so much hurt, my heart shatters. I have to wake him up. But how?
I dip my fingers into the glass of water on his nightstand and flick a few drops on his face.
His eyes snap open. I jump back, keeping well out of the way. He sits up, the water running down his chest, and onto the bed. His eyelashes are spiky, a strand of hair curls on his forehead.
My fingers itch to smooth it back, but I resist.
He glances around wildly and spots me. “Ember, don’t go.” The veins on his throat stand out in relief. His voice is frantic.
His eyes indicate he’s caught between sleep and wakefulness.
“It was a nightmare.” I curl my fingers into fists at my sides. I want to go to him and soothe him, but I don’t dare. Not that I worry that he’ll hurt me. He won’t. But he’ll hate himself if we’re caught in a situation similar to last time.
He wipes his face as if trying to erase both the nightmare and the water.
But his body language gives away his vulnerability: tense shoulders, jaw locked tight, flushed cheeks from embarrassment.
Slowly, his eyes clear. Concern filters into his expression. "Harper?"
"You were dreaming."
His shoulders sag a little. He runs his fingers through his hair, then shoves his bedsheets aside, rising to his feet. He’s wearing only a pair of black boxers that are tented in the center.
But the expression on his face, and the way sweat beads his shoulders only add to his vulnerability.
Still my gaze keeps darting to his crotch. I can’t ignore its size. And how it felt when he pressed up against me.
There’s something about seeing him not wearing much, in his bedroom, which makes my nipples peak and my toes curl.
Man’s recovering from a PTSD induced nightmare, and all I want is to jump him. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have come in.
"Umm…I’m going to leave.”
I turn to leave, but he calls out, "No stay. Just let me… Just wait a minute, please."
He takes me in from head to toe, scanning to make sure I’m okay. Then he walks toward me and brushes past me. His fingertips twitch. Like he wants to reach for me, but he's holding back.
His eyes communicate concern and lingering guilt. He’s remembering the last time I woke him up from a nightmare, and he lost control and choked me.
Then he’s past me and walking to the bathroom.
I try not to notice his tight, fit arse, then give in and watch him prowl toward the en suite.
"I can feel you staring," he says mildly.
I flush and look around the room and decide to smooth out the crumpled bedding. By the time I’m done, he emerges wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt that outlines his pecs and his abs.
Damn, that only makes him hotter.
He arches an eyebrow at the newly made bed but doesn’t say anything. He slides under the covers, then pats the empty space on the other side.
"You want me to get in?"
"If you want." He looks at me seriously. "It’s only so I can get some sleep.”
His tone is earnest, and his expression is open. Vulnerable. My heart melts. My stomach flutters. I want to stay with him. Reassure him.
I want to take care of him, so he doesn’t get those nightmares again, and instead, gets a good night’s sleep.