Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
SINCLAIR brOTHERS
Jaxson pressed his pen to the final signature line, his Mont Blanc leaving an elegant flourish that added another comma to his bank account.
Satisfaction rippled through him as the DuMont contract—all thirty-six pages of prime Manhattan real estate legalities—slid back across the polished mahogany desk.
“Congratulations, Ms. Alvarez.” He smiled, knowing exactly how much charm to deploy—professional enough to command respect, warm enough to secure a client for life. “You’ve just acquired the finest penthouse in the Upper East Side.”
Elena Alvarez—venture capitalist with more money than patience—glanced up from her phone with a smile.
“How efficient, Jaxson. I expected this process to devour my entire afternoon.” She crossed her legs, the movement deliberate beneath her Valentino dress.
“Perhaps we should celebrate? I know a divine little place on 63rd that serves exceptional martinis.”
A week ago, he might have considered it—networking was the backbone of real estate, after all. But now, with the memory of Lan’s honey-sweet scent still lingering in his senses from that morning, the thought of spending unnecessary time with anyone else felt like an exercise in futility.
The breakfast scene had played on repeat in his mind all morning—Lan wandering into the kitchen, drowsy and rumpled, wearing another of Jaxson’s shirts that hung off one perfect shoulder.
The sight had triggered that now-familiar heat in Jaxson’s chest, a molten warmth that spread outward from his sternum whenever Lan was near.
His body’s reactions to Lan had grown more intense since that night a week ago, more immediate, more difficult to disguise.
“I’d love to,” he lied smoothly, already gathering the contract into its leather portfolio, “but I’m afraid I have another appointment. Calloway & Co. keeps me on a tight leash.”
Henry appeared in the doorway like a well-timed rescue, his presence triggering a perfectly choreographed exit strategy they’d perfected over years.
“Speaking of tight leashes,” Henry interjected, tapping his watch with exaggerated concern, “your two o’clock is waiting, and you know how the Prestons feel about tardiness. ”
“Of course.” Jaxson rose, buttoning his suit jacket. “Ms. Alvarez, it’s been a pleasure. Henry will handle the final details for your closing.”
Elena’s disappointment was expertly concealed beneath a professional smile as she offered her hand.
Her fingers lingered against his palm a fraction too long, her gaze direct and inviting.
Years of professional practice allowed Jaxson to extricate himself with a warmth that suggested no offense taken while offering nothing in return.
In the corridor outside, Henry dropped the professional facade, elbowing Jaxson. “Another satisfied customer snared by the Sinclair charm. At this rate, we’re going to need to expand your office just to fit your ego.”
“Very funny.” Jaxson straightened his cuffs, a habit that betrayed his lingering perfectionism despite his relaxed exterior. “What’s my actual schedule look like? Preston rescheduled, didn’t they?”
“Yes.” Henry’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Which means you’re free after the Westbrook viewing. Unless you’ve got more hearts to break? Poor Ms. Alvarez looked genuinely disappointed when you didn’t bite at those martinis.”
“Professional boundaries,” Jaxson reminded him. “Some of us actually maintain them.”
“Says the man who’s turned down six perfectly eligible women this month alone.” Henry studied him with the careful attention of a scientist observing a particularly interesting specimen. “You know, most men would consider mingling business with pleasure when the pleasure looks like Elena Alvarez.”
Jaxson’s phone vibrated in his pocket, rescuing him from Henry’s scrutiny.
The calendar notification about the Westbrook viewing appeared on-screen, along with a reminder about the property portfolio he’d meticulously prepared the night before.
The same portfolio that currently sat on his study desk in the apartment.
“Shit,” he muttered, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “I need to swing by the apartment for the Westbrook materials.”
“You?” Henry’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline in genuine surprise. “Forgot case materials? What’s next—the sun rising in the west? Colt wearing mismatched socks? The apocalypse?”
“I was distracted this morning,” Jaxson admitted, already calculating the quickest route home in midday Manhattan traffic.
“Distracted?” Henry repeated, his tone suggesting he was filing this unprecedented occurrence away for future reference. “You mean something actually penetrated the fortress of focus that is Jaxson Sinclair’s mind? Or should I ask who?”
The question struck too close to home. Images flashed unbidden through Jaxson’s mind—Lan at breakfast, sleepy-eyed and flushed, drowning in another borrowed shirt.
The delicate sweep of his collarbone exposed as the fabric slipped off one shoulder.
The way his hair fell across his forehead as he reached for the coffee.
The honey-sweet scent that seemed to intensify when their hands brushed, wrapping around Jaxson like an invisible embrace.
“Just forgot them,” Jaxson said, already walking toward the elevator. “Save your fascination for someone who deserves it.”
The elevator doors slid closed with merciful finality, leaving Jaxson alone with his thoughts—a dangerous proposition these days, when every quiet moment seemed filled with Lan.
Not just memories of him, but an almost physical awareness of his existence, as if Jaxson had developed a sixth sense attuned specifically to Lan’s presence in the world.
This heightened awareness had grown steadily stronger in the week since that night they shared his bed, since that moment in the car when Lan had confessed his feelings for someone “completely off-limits.” The words had triggered something primitive and possessive in Jaxson’s chest, something that growled mine with increasing frequency and intensity.
The garage beneath Calloway & Co. was dimly lit and smelled of concrete and exhaust—a stark contrast to the luxury showcased above.
Jaxson’s sedan waited in its reserved space, polished to a mirror shine as befitted a successful real estate agent.
The car recognized his approach, lights flashing in greeting as the doors unlocked automatically.
Behind the wheel, Jaxson set his GPS for the apartment, though he could have made the drive blindfolded.
Midday Manhattan traffic crawled with its usual painful slowness, testing the limits of his patience.
Each red light, each taxi cutting him off, each delivery truck double-parked in his path felt like a personal affront, an obstacle between him and his destination.
His body seemed pulled toward the apartment by an invisible thread, a strange urgency building with each block that brought him closer to home.
The sensation wasn’t entirely new—he’d noticed it developing gradually over the past years, this almost magnetic awareness of Lan’s location.
But since their encounter that night, the pull had intensified to something that bordered on physical discomfort when they were separated.
Jaxson had no framework for understanding these sensations, these changes in his body’s responses.
The molten heat that pooled in his chest whenever Lan was near, the way his senses seemed to sharpen, the ability to detect Lan’s sweet scent from across a crowded room—none of it followed the patterns of attraction he’d experienced before.
This felt older, deeper, more primal than mere desire.
It felt like recognition, like something in him had awakened after a long dormancy, stretching and unfurling with a certainty that defied rational explanation.
By the time he parked in front of their apartment building, the pull had become almost painful—a physical tugging in his chest that eased only when he stepped through the lobby doors.
When he finally unlocked their apartment door, the middle-of-the-day stillness struck him as peculiar after the morning’s chaos.
No one should be home, he reasoned as he moved through the living room, loosening his tie.
Lan had mentioned studying with Bree, Xander would be at class, Colt at his new job, Nico with his gaming friends, and Wei at work.
The Westbrook portfolio would be waiting on his study desk, where he’d left it after spending half the night preparing it to perfection.
The memory of working late, of the careful organization of materials, of triple-checking every detail, made the earlier lapse all the more baffling.
Jaxson Sinclair did not forget important documents.
He did not misplace client portfolios. He did not—
His hand froze on the doorknob, his entire body going rigid as he pushed open his bedroom door.
The sight before him knocked the air from his lungs in a single sharp exhale while his briefcase slipped from suddenly numb fingers, hitting the floor with a thud that seemed distant and muffled, as if coming from another dimension entirely.
The world around him blurred and faded until nothing existed except the impossible vision that had rendered him motionless.
The object of his growing obsession—his most private, forbidden desire—lay curled on his bed in peaceful slumber, transforming Jaxson’s carefully ordered sanctuary into something from his most secret dreams. Lan’s presence in his personal space felt simultaneously like an invasion and a homecoming, stirring something primal and possessive in Jaxson’s chest that threatened to shatter his carefully maintained control.