Chapter 6
Chapter six
Avery
“Oh, is that from the boss?” A nosey colleague, Madeline, peers over my shoulder. I hide the note under a folder.
“Uh, yeah. Doesn’t he treat everyone to coffee once in a while?”
“No. No, he doesn’t.” Shooting me a weirded-out look, Madeline retreats to her desk.
I take out Dylan’s post-it once more. I trace the words with my fingertip, then fold the note carefully and add it to the growing collection in my desk drawer.
Two weeks since I slept in his guest room, and it's been torture.
I throw myself into the Miller acquisition.
Contracts become my shield, legal language my armor against the way Dylan's presence fills every room he enters.
But it's getting harder to maintain the professional distance when we're working sixteen-hour days side by side, when his hand finds the small of my back to guide me into conference rooms, when he defends my ideas to the senior partners with fierce conviction that makes my chest constrict.
"The liability clause needs restructuring," I tell him during our morning review, keeping my voice steady even though he's standing close enough that I can smell his cologne, a blend that reminds me of oranges and something woodsy.
"Their lawyers are trying to shift the assumption of risk in subsection twelve. "
Dylan leans over my shoulder to read the passage I'm indicating, and I forget how to breathe. His sleeve brushes my arm as he points to another section. "Good catch. Flag it for Harrison. She'll want to see this before the call."
Professional. Appropriate. Nothing like the way his voice dropped to a growl when he told Oliver to leave my building. Nothing like the care in his eyes on his balcony.
I close my eyes, trying to chase away the memory, but it clings to me like morning fog.
"Avery?" Dylan's voice pulls me back. "You okay?"
"Fine." The automatic response, even though we both know it's a lie. Even though the restraining order I filed with Dylan's help sits in my apartment is proof that I'm anything but fine.
Oliver has been silent for two weeks. No texts, no calls, no surprise visits. I should feel relieved.
Instead, I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the ground to crumble.
The day passes in a blur of meetings and document reviews.
Dylan and I move around each other with practiced precision, a choreography we've perfected over the past few months that now feels loaded with unspoken tension. Every accidental touch sends electricity through my skin that demands to be felt. Every shared glance holds weight I can’t ignore.
By evening, we're alone in his office with the final contract revisions spread across his conference table.
The city sparkles beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, and I'm hyperaware of how empty the building feels, how it's just us and the cleaning crew and all this space between what we are and what we could be.
"This indemnification clause is problematic," I say, highlighting the section. "They're trying to limit their exposure to ten million when the potential liability could reach fifty."
Dylan rolls up his sleeves—a simple gesture that shouldn't affect me the way it does. "What do you recommend?"
"Push for uncapped indemnification or walk away. The risk isn't worth it otherwise."
"Agreed." He makes a note, then glances at me. "You're brilliant, you know that?"
The compliment catches me off guard. Not because he hasn't praised my work before, but because of the way he says it. Like it's a simple fact. Like the sky is blue and water is wet, and I'm brilliant.
"Dylan—"
"Harrison was right about you," he continues, not letting me deflect. "That first day, she told me you were going to be trouble. The best kind, of course."
My pen slips from my fingers, clattering on the table. The sound seems too loud in the quiet office. I reach for it at the same time Dylan does, our hands colliding, his fingers over mine.
I pull my hand back like I've been burned; frustration and want and fear all tangling in my chest until I can't breathe.
We sit there for a moment in charged awkward silence, the contract forgotten, the city lights casting shadows across Dylan's face.
He sets down his pen with deliberate calm and turns to face me fully.
"Avery, listen. I know your batshit ex hurt you badly enough that you built walls,” he says, and I’m still stunned about him cursing as he continues in a softer tone, “I recognize because I built the same ones.
I know he made you believe that loving someone means becoming less, when real love should make you more. "
Oh. The words steal the air from my lungs. My eyes burn with tears I refuse to shed.
Dylan's hand twitches like he wants to reach for me, but won't without my permission. "You deserve someone who will earn your trust.”
I remember the past two weeks—the coffee appearing like clockwork, the way he positions himself between me and the door in crowded elevators because he noticed I get claustrophobic, the patient texts checking if I'm okay without demanding responses.
And suddenly, the dam overflows, and I'm angry. Angry at Oliver for breaking me. Angry at myself for still being broken. Angry at Dylan for making me want things I swore I'd never want again.
"Why are you doing this?" The words burst out before I can stop them.
Dylan straightens, confused. "Doing what?"
"This." I gesture between us, my composure finally cracking. "Caring so much about me. Making me feel like I'm important."
"Because you are, Avery," he says, and this time, his hand doesn't need permission. It takes mine. "You're brilliant, kind, and amazing. You are… everything any man would ever want."
"And what would you want from me?" I ask, stunned. No one has ever said those things to me.
"Everything."
The single word hangs between us, heavy with promise.
"I want Sunday mornings, terrible coffee, and arguments about contract law. I want you to challenge me in boardrooms and trust me with your fears. I want you to stop running and let me prove that I'm not him."
My heart pounds so hard it hurts. “Dylan…”
"I'm not him," Dylan insists firmly.
"I know." The words come out broken. "That's what makes this so terrifying. Because if you were like him, it would be easy to walk away. But you're not, and that means if I let myself feel —if I let myself fall—the landing could destroy me."
Dylan leans closer. "Tell me what you need. More time? More space? Name it, and it's yours."
"For how long?"
"However long it takes."
"And if it's forever?"
Something flickers in his eyes—pain maybe—but his voice stays steady. "Then I'll be grateful for the chance to know you like this."
The certainty in his voice breaks something in me. I think about his family welcoming me without question. Margaret pulling me aside to thank me for making her son happy. Thomas's stories over dinner, Jake's easy laughter, and the way they all made space for me at their table like I belonged there.
I remember Dylan's hand on my lower back, guiding but never pushing, the way he looks at me during meetings like I'm something precious and powerful all at once; that night on his balcony after he saved me.
And I realize with stunning clarity that I'm tired of running.
"I don't want you to wait."
The words hang in the air between us, and I watch Dylan's careful control crack as hope and heat flood his eyes.
Before I can second-guess myself, before fear can make me retreat, I reach out into his space and crash our mouths together.
We both stand up to collide our bodies. Dylan's hands come up to frame my face, gentle at first, like he's afraid I'll bolt.
But when I press closer and my hands fist in his shirt, his control shatters.
He kisses me with tongue and teeth, like he's been drowning and I'm air, more than three months of restraint breaking all at once.
My back hits the edge of the conference table, and Dylan lifts me onto it without breaking the kiss, contracts scattering to the floor. His hands tangle in my hair, and my name becomes a prayer between us, breathed against my lips like something sacred.
Our kisses are desperate and deep, making up for weeks of careful distance, and I feel myself coming apart in the best way. Every place he touches—the small of my back, my cheeks, my waist—feels like coming back to life, like remembering what it means to want and be wanted without fear.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, I look at him with wonder, terror, and something that might be joy. His hands still frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones with devastating gentleness.
"Tell me what you need," he says roughly, pressing his forehead to mine. "All your rules. Every boundary, every fear, every line you need me not to cross."
A laugh bubbles up, shaky but real. "I already broke rule number one."
"Which was?"
"No workplace romances."
Dylan's smile is slow and devastating, the one that made me want him from that first day he saved me. "Then I guess we're both breaking the rules."
He connects our mouths again, softer this time, like we have all the time in the world.
"Okay, fine. So I do have some conditions," I say when we part again, trying to sound businesslike even though I'm sitting on his conference table with my hair messed up and my lips swollen from his kisses.
"I'm listening." His hands settle on my waist, steady and sure.
"We keep it professional at work. No one finds out until we're ready."
"Agreed. Jake was already annoying before. I can’t imagine what he’ll be like if he finds out."
That brings a smile to my lips. "We go slow. I need time to—"
"Avery." He cuts me off gently. "We go at whatever pace you need. No pressure, no timeline, no expectations except honesty."
"And if I panic? If I run again?"
"Then I'll wait." His eyes hold mine, gray, serious, and full of something that makes my chest ache.
I study his face, this man who sees all my sharp edges and wants me anyway. Who celebrates my ambition instead of trying to contain it. Who's been patient not as strategy but as kindness.
"Okay," I breathe out, letting go of all the pent-up tension.
Dylan's smile could light up the whole city. He helps me down from the table, then starts gathering the scattered contracts with endearing sheepishness.
"We should probably—"
"Leave these for tomorrow?" I suggest, surprising myself. "Maybe get dinner instead?"
"Dinner." He says it like I've offered him something precious. "I know a place. Quiet, discreet, makes fantastic pasta."
Twenty minutes later, we're in a small Italian restaurant tucked away in a neighborhood I've never explored, sitting in a corner booth like a secret. Dylan's hand finds mine across the table, and I don't pull away—I even link our fingers together.
I tell him about growing up feeling like I had to earn love through achievement, nearly burning out in my first year of law school, trying to be perfect for my dreams of being a corporate lawyer. About Jessica being the only person who loved me as messy and imperfect as I am.
Dylan listens without interrupting, his thumb tracing circles on my palm, and when I finish, he tells me his own truths.
About taking over a failing company at thirty-two.
About his ex who cheated because he worked too much and blamed him for choosing the business over her.
About building walls so high he thought no one would ever scale them.
"But you did," he adds quietly.
We talk until the restaurant starts closing, and then Dylan drives me home. He walks me to my building's entrance, and under the glow of the entry lights, he gives me a goodnight kiss—soft, sure, and full of promise.
"Thank you," he says against my lips.
"For what?"
"For taking the risk. For running toward me."
I kiss him once more, then head inside before I lose my nerve and invite him up.
As the elevator rises to my floor, I catch my reflection in the mirrored doors.
There's color in my cheeks, a light in my eyes I haven't seen in months as I wear the smile he put on my face, and for the first time in so long, I'm not afraid of letting someone see all my broken pieces and sharp edges.
Because Dylan Vance doesn't want to fix me or change me or make me smaller.
He just wants…
Me.
And maybe that's enough.