Chapter 18 #2
His gaze didn’t leave her. Like it was another thing he’d added to his file.
“That’s how you know she’s not fully herself. When she stops singing.”
“Not always, Claire Bear—hey!” Bea yelped as a perfect piece of broccoli was snatched from her bowl.
“Is there a backstory for ‘Claire Bear’ or is it just that it rhymes?” Laurent asked, pouring sparkling water for the table.
“You know how bears can be cute and cuddly…or ferocious and eat your face?” Bea asked, meeting his blue eyes. “Yeah. That’s all I’m gonna say.”
Claire didn’t even protest.
“So what about you two? Are you a Batman and Robin duo, or Bond and Q?” Claire inquired.
Laurent chewed a chunk of bulgogi. “Which would I be?”
“Well, you’re too pretty to be Batman,” Claire said.
Bea snorted into her glass. “How’d you meet?”
“We met when my dad and I went to Europe to pitch for funding for GV,” Rafael said. “Next thing I know, he turns up in the UR. At my high school.”
“My father told me I was going for a semester abroad,” Laurent said, skewering a piece of capsicum. “Turns out it was a full relocation. Jettisoned my path toward being a first-class reprobate in Geneva. I was pissed.”
“And I was stuck with a guy who wore Italian loafers to a construction site.” Rafael passed the gochugaru chili powder into Claire’s waving hand.
“I was fifteen and rich, steel-capped boots weren’t a staple.” Laurent gestured at Rafael with his chopsticks. “He was more fists than strategy back then. No finesse. Couldn’t sit through a meeting and look properly bored.”
“Still can’t.”
Bea’s gaze pinged between the two of them. “And this turned into friendship…how?”
A pause, loaded. Rafael glanced at Laurent.
Laurent shrugged. “I decided to opt into military training so I could get my UR citizenship. We got into trouble.”
“Covered for each other. Didn’t die,” Rafael clarified, helpfully.
Laurent raised his glass. “Been good since.”
Men really said stuff like that and moved on. No explanation, no monologue. Just—didn’t die.
Rafael had already gone back to his rice. Bea bit back a grin as she watched him. Most of the time she saw him eat at society shindigs or out. When he was at home, he ate like Goku from Dragon Ball Z. Ravenous, not holding back, enjoying the moment.
It was an oddly intimate thing to witness. Somehow, that felt like the biggest revelation of the night.
RAFAEL
“Balcony, Griffin. Wine tastes better with a view,” Laurent said, grabbing hold of the red he’d selected earlier.
Claire gathered four wineglasses, and turned to Bea. “Coming?”
Bea opened her mouth.
“She’s staying,” Rafael said smoothly, before she could answer.
She turned to him. “Since when?”
“Helping with dessert, right?”
Bea’s eyes pinched at the corners, but she didn’t object.
Claire read the room. “Don’t burn the place down.”
Laurent’s smirk said everything. They vanished.
Bea was barefoot, one hip hitched against the counter, her body loose in a way he hadn’t seen before. Like she’d forgotten to guard herself around him. “What are we making?”
“Tiramisu cups. Technically just assembling.” He pulled the mascarpone from the fridge, set it beside the other ingredients.
“So why do you need help?”
“Don’t. Just want you here.” He passed her the whisk and a large stainless-steel bowl, fingers brushing hers deliberately. Because he needed at least that much. “Stiff peaks.”
Her face flushed, and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Common phrase, intriguing reaction.
“You don’t have an electric mixer?”
“You forget,” he said, flexing one arm and tapping on it. “Biceps.”
She snorted a laugh and got to work. She bit on the very tip of her tongue as she focused. A hundred filthy thoughts hit at once. He was going to hell.
He turned away, grounding himself in the familiar hiss of the espresso machine.
“You’re enjoying yourself,” he said over his shoulder.
She smiled at the bowl. “I am.”
“You forgot to be afraid of me.”
Her hand paused. “I…guess I did.”
Her answer was quiet. Befuddled. As if she hadn’t realized it until he said it.
He turned, poured the espresso into the bowl as she mixed. “Is it ready?”
She dipped a spoon into the bowl and tasted.
“Thoughts?” he asked.
Bea licked her bottom lip, not trying to be sensual but managing it all the same. “Creamy. Sweet. Slightly overconfident.”
His gaze caught on her mouth. He’d made a mistake. He should’ve kept her upstairs. Now all he saw were her lips—and the counter behind her.
Her dark eyes held his, projecting not fear but an answering awareness. Her whole body was still, except for the pulse that beat visibly at the hollow of her throat.
She knew the gist of what he was thinking, and she wasn’t pulling away.
Carefully, he moved closer, thigh brushing hers. “If I kissed you right now, you’d let me,” he murmured, danger wrapped in silk. His hand slid down the counter beside her, palm flat. Caging her.
He held the space. He could take it.
But some things were better claimed when she couldn’t mistake what they were.
“I won’t. Not yet.” The words scraped his throat, coming out harsher than he meant. He could smell her shampoo under the espresso, see the rise of her chest as she waited to see what he would do.
Every instinct screamed to take. To taste. To end the waiting. But he forced stillness into his limbs. The last thing he wanted was to give her a new excuse to run.
He wanted the words, the breaking point. The moment she admitted she didn’t want friendship any more than he did.