Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
LAN
I’d been staring at the same Chinese character for seventeen minutes. Seventeen. I knew because I’d been watching the minutes tick by on my phone, each one passing with excruciating slowness while my brain performed its best impression of a goldfish swimming in circles.
The character—which I’m pretty sure meant “perseverance” or possibly “spring onion,” my Mandarin was sketchy at best—blurred as my eyes unfocused for the twelfth time.
Wei would be so disappointed in me. All those years of him trying to keep our mother tongue alive in my head, and here I was, defeated by what was probably vocabulary a Chinese kindergartener could handle.
I slapped my cheeks lightly, trying to jumpstart my brain cells. “Focus, Lan. It’s not quantum physics. It’s one stupid character.”
My glorified walk-in closet bedroom felt unusually claustrophobic today.
The walls seemed to be inching closer, the ceiling lower, until I was practically breathing my own recycled air.
Or maybe that was just a side effect of sleeping approximately three hours after my shift at Eight Dynasties ended at midnight.
Jaxson had been waiting at the restaurant, of course.
He’d been doing that more often lately—showing up near the end of my shift, nursing a whiskey at the bar, those amber-hazel eyes tracking my movements like I might disappear if he looked away.
Part of me found it annoying (I wasn’t a child needing supervision), but a more honest part—the part I usually tried to smother with sarcasm—found it disturbingly attractive.
“You don’t need to wait for me every time,” I’d said as we walked to his car, the night air cool against my skin after the heat of the kitchen. “I’m perfectly capable of using the subway.”
“At midnight? In Manhattan?” Jaxson had given me that look—the one that somehow combined exasperation, protectiveness, and fond amusement. “I don’t think so.”
I’d rolled my eyes but didn’t argue further. The truth was, after a six-hour shift of dodging handsy customers and navigating Eleanor’s exacting standards, sliding into Jaxson’s warm car was a relief I wasn’t willing to give up, even for the sake of my pride.
The drive home had been quiet, comfortable in a way that made my chest ache with something I couldn’t name.
Jaxson had asked about my shift, his voice low and soothing in the darkness, and I’d found myself rambling about the couple who’d gotten engaged at table twelve, about Bree’s latest drama, about Eleanor’s new tasting menu.
By the time we’d reached the apartment, exhaustion had hit me like a freight train. Jaxson had set his keys down and removed his suit jacket with practiced ease. The simple movement—the roll of his shoulders, the flex of his arms—had momentarily short-circuited my brain. “Go to bed, Lan.”
The phrasing had sent my sleep-deprived mind straight to the gutter, images flashing through my head that had no business being there. “Right. Sleep. Good. Night.”
Eloquent as always when exhausted, I’d turned toward the hallway, only to stumble over absolutely nothing because apparently my feet required more brainpower than I currently possessed. Jaxson’s hand had shot out, steadying me with that effortless strength that never failed to make my stomach flip.
“Careful,” he’d murmured, his voice doing that rough, deep thing it did when he was tired. The sound had traveled down my spine like warm honey, settling in places that made standing difficult.
What happened next was a bit fuzzy—I vaguely remembered his arm around me, guiding me to my room, his fingers brushing my hair back from my forehead, a whispered “Sleep well, angel.” But that last part might have been a dream. Probably was a dream. Almost definitely a dream.
When I’d woken this morning, Jaxson had already been up for hours, dressed impeccably in his work clothes while I’d stumbled to the breakfast table still half-asleep.
I vaguely remembered him watching me with that intensity that made my skin prickle with awareness as I’d slumped over my coffee, wearing one of his old t-shirts that kept slipping off my shoulder.
He’d mentioned something about a big client meeting before leaving, his hand lingering on my shoulder a moment too long as he said goodbye.
And now here I was, hours later, pretending to study while really just marinating in feelings I had no business having for my stepbrother.
It had been exactly one week since that night after the party.
One week since I’d shared Jaxson’s bed and begged—actually begged, like some desperate heroine in one of Bree’s romance novels—for him to teach me how to kiss.
“Private tutoring,” I’d called it, because apparently my brain thought dressing up sexual desperation in academic language would make it less pathetic.
One week since his hands had turned me into a trembling, incoherent mess faster than Colt could delete a misplaced file from his color-coded desktop.
One week since I’d discovered what his mouth could do (and holy shit, what that mouth could do) and embarrassed myself by making noises that probably violated several noise ordinances.
One week of me turning into a walking disaster every time he entered a room, of stolen glances across the breakfast table that Wei definitely noticed (the smug bastard notices everything), of enough sexual tension to power Manhattan during a blackout, an alien invasion, AND the apocalypse combined.
I groaned, letting my head fall forward onto my textbook with a thud. “This is ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.”
My phone buzzed with a text from Bree. How’s the Chinese study going, language master?
I snapped a picture of myself face down on the textbook and sent it without comment.
She replied almost immediately. That well, huh? Maybe you should take a study break. Or better yet, ask Jaxson for help. You two seemed pretty cozy after the party last week… ??
“Oh my GOD,” I muttered, feeling heat flood my face.
I hate you, I texted back.
No, you don’t. You’re just sexually frustrated. Go find your hot stepbrother and solve that problem.
I tossed my phone aside like it had spontaneously turned into a venomous snake. Bree was going to be the death of me. Or at least the death of my dignity, which was already on life support.
Five more minutes of staring at the same Chinese character convinced me that studying was a lost cause. The apartment was empty, I had the place to myself, a rare luxury that I was completely wasting by having an existential crisis in my closet bedroom.
Before I could question my own judgment (a dangerous pastime I really should indulge in more often), I found myself wandering down the hall toward Jaxson’s room. I told myself it was innocent—I was just restless, just looking for a change of scenery, just…
Who was I kidding? I was moth to flame, steel to magnet, disaster to happening.
I hesitated at his door, my hand on the knob. This was crossing a line. Again. We were already operating in a gray area of questionable stepbrother behavior, and sneaking into his room while he was out was definitely pushing it further into the “needs therapy” zone.
“Just a quick peek,” I told myself, as if that made it better. “I’m not going to touch anything.”
That was lie number one.
Jaxson’s bedroom was exactly like him—meticulously organized, elegant in its simplicity, everything in its place.
The bed was made with military precision, not a wrinkle in sight.
His desk contained exactly three items: a closed laptop, a leather portfolio, and a single pen.
The walls were a deep navy blue, the furniture solid wood in rich mahogany.
It was masculine without being obnoxious about it, sophisticated without trying too hard.
It was also permeated with his scent—that unique combination of expensive cologne, clean laundry, and something indefinably Jaxson that made my knees weak and my brain cells wave white flags of surrender.
I drifted toward his closet, telling myself I just wanted to see if he had any interesting ties. That was lie number two.
The closet was a marvel of organization that would give Colt heart palpitations of joy. Suits arranged by color, shirts by style and then color, ties on a special rack, shoes lined up with the precision of soldiers on parade. Everything color-coded, everything perfect.
My fingers trailed over the sleeve of one dress shirt—crisp white, expensive material, probably tailored specifically for him. Before I could stop myself, I’d pulled it from the hanger, holding it up to examine it more closely.
“This is weird,” I told my reflection in Jaxson’s full-length mirror. “This is definitely weird.”
But apparently acknowledging the weirdness wasn’t enough to stop me, because the next thing I knew, I was pulling off my own shirt, letting it fall to the floor, and slipping my arms into the cool fabric of Jaxson’s dress shirt.
It was enormous on me. The shoulders drooped, the sleeves extended well past my fingertips, and the hem hit mid-thigh. I looked like a child playing dress-up, or a boyfriend-stealing girl in a rom-com, or a complete lunatic with boundary issues. Possibly all three.
But as I rolled up the sleeves and adjusted the collar, I couldn’t deny the little thrill that ran through me. Wearing his clothes felt intimate in a way that defied rational explanation. The fabric still carried his scent, wrapping around me like an embrace.
“You’re losing it, Lan,” I told my reflection, watching as my cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment—or something else entirely. “This is how restraining orders happen.”