Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Bea woke up to the sound of Georgie swearing.
Not a quiet, under-the-breath curse, but a full-blown, I’m-going-to-die string of profanities muffled only by her bedroom door.
Bea sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She groggily made her way through Georgina’s bedroom, and into her ensuite.
“Are we being robbed, or is this just a regular panic attack?”
Georgie stood in an oversized robe, her hair half curled and her eyeliner smudged from where she’d clearly rubbed at it in distress.
“I forgot my monologue. I forgot my freaking monologue, Bea!”
“The one you’ve been reciting in your sleep?”
Georgie flung out an arm dramatically. “It’s gone! My brain is blank! I have no brain! And my costume fitting is in an hour, and I’m dead serious, if they put me in the wrong shade of ivory again, I’ll—”
Bea gripped Georgina’s arms. “Okay, first of all, breathe. Second, do you want to run lines or do you want me to lie and tell you you’re going to be amazing no matter what?”
Georgie pointed at her. “Both.”
Bea disappeared into Georgina’s room and picked up the script from the nightstand, flipping to the page even she knew by heart at this point.
“Alright, let’s go. From the top.”
Georgie inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. When she opened them, she was still frazzled, but at least some of the hysteria had dimmed.
Bea softened. “You’ve got this, Georgie. You’re going to be phenomenal tonight.”
Georgie let out a dramatic sigh. “Ugh, you’re such a good friend. It’s offensive you didn’t transfer sooner.”
Bea laughed. “I’ll make up for it by clapping the loudest and pretending I understood all the subtext.”
Georgie arched a brow. “If I flop, you’re faking a medical emergency. I want gasps.”
Bea grinned. “Duh, I’ve been practicing.”
Bea shifted on her feet as the coffee cart line inched forward beneath the bruised fall sky. The dress wasn’t uncomfortable, just…a little out of place. Too refined for a student queue, too cold for standing outside, and definitely too delicate for stress-sweating.
She’d run home after her third lecture to change, then raced straight back for one last class. She was already late. But after the day she’d had, and with the headache pressing behind her eyes, she needed the caffeine hit before Georgina’s play.
She checked her phone. 5:27 p.m.
Gage would be here any minute.
Her stomach tightened.
She hadn’t really thought this through. Not until now, standing in line with her insides clattering like someone had dropped the entire drawer of silverware down a stairwell.
She was about to get into a car. Alone.
With Gage King.
Not just Gage. Gage in a suit. Gage with that voice, that stare. Quiet, calm, impossible to ignore.
The line crawled forward. The girl ahead of her rattled off an order so specific it sounded more like a stock portfolio than a drink.
Bea sighed and adjusted her bag. The heels inside weren’t even that heavy, but combined with her laptop and everything else, it felt like she was carrying a small anvil.
A voice behind her cut through the hum. “Four.”
Bea turned.
Rafael.
“Sorry?” she asked him.
“This is your fourth coffee today.”
She scoffed. “It is not.”
His brows lifted, daring her to do the math.
She did.
Oh. He was right. She wasn’t sure if four was still heart-healthy, or if it meant she needed an intervention.
“You drink a lot of coffee for a girl who’s always trying to keep calm.”
“And you don’t drink enough for a guy who works out like it’s a full-time job,” she shot back.
He didn’t respond, just let that slow curve of his lips do the damage. Her fingers tensed around the strap of her bag.
Brilliant. Way to let him know you’ve absolutely been paying attention.
Bea turned, stepped up to the counter, rattled off her usual order, and swiped her black card.
Dared a glance back.
“Careful, little Bea,” he murmured. “Curiosity is how things start.”
She faced forward again, pulse stuttering. “I’m always careful.”
The barista slid her cup across the counter.
“Enjoy the show tonight,” he said.
She didn’t ask how he knew. Just grabbed her cup and walked away.
Not too fast.
Not too slow.
By the time Bea reached the curb, Gage was already there.
His car idled by the entrance under the amber glow of the streetlights. He leaned against the hood, arms crossed, suit immaculate, watching her with that unreadable expression.
Her fingers tightened around the warmth of her coffee cup as she slowed. She took a sip. Not because she needed it. Because she needed to steady herself.
“Sorry,” she said quietly. She was late, and he didn’t seem like the type who would be cool with that.
Gage didn’t respond. His gaze traveled past her. Back toward the coffee cart.
Her stomach dipped.
He knew. And possibly, if she was very unlucky, he’d seen.
“You made a stop.” His voice was calm. Like it didn’t bother him. But something told her it did. His eyes came back to her. “Maybe you should frequent a different place for coffee.”
“He’d find me,” she said.
It was supposed to sound offhand. It was only once the words came out that she realized how true they were.
And how Gage might misunderstand them.
His body tensed, ever so slightly. He straightened slowly, and she saw the calculation in his eyes. Realization struck.
He was going to Rafael.
Her stomach dropped. “Wait. What? No.”
Without thinking, she reached out. The full palm of her hand flattened against his chest, as if to stop him.
The contact lasted only a second, but it was enough.
The warmth beneath the fabric. The strength.
The sheer density of him. It jolted through her like a current.
Her lungs forgot what to do for a full second.
She pulled back quickly, rattled by her own reaction.
Gage didn’t move, though his jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists before he forced them to relax.
“Don’t,” she said, throat tight. “Please. Just forget it.”
His hand caught her arm before she could step back. His grip was just firm enough to make sure she was listening.
“I won’t forget,” he said.
Her pulse climbed higher. “Gage,” she murmured. “Let’s go.”
He searched her eyes. She didn’t know what he was looking for, but it felt like he found it. He slowly released her. Opened her door without a word. She slid inside, her shoulder brushing the edge of his coat as she passed.
Bea had never been in an Aston Martin before, but it felt exactly how she imagined Gage’s car would. Immaculate. Built for control. Everything inside was meticulously placed, from the curved leather seats to the polished dials.
She’d always thought of sports cars as loud, flashy things. This one, though, was designed as much for proficiency as it was for spectacle. Just like the man who owned it.
She stared out the window, fingers curled around her coffee cup. Her mind circled back, again, again.
I won’t forget.
The words stuck. But more than that was the way he’d looked when he moved. Like he was going to draw a line. Protect her, or something. Was that romantic? She wasn’t sure what it was.
Beside her, Gage drove silently.
She’d known this moment would be intense. She hadn’t anticipated intolerable. Just the two of them. Too much proximity. No space to hide behind.
And then there was the scent of him, crisp citrus layered over warm woods, newly cemented in her brain as her favorite aroma, thoroughly ruining her ability to think of anything useful to say.
“You’re quiet,” was the best she could do.
“I don’t always need to talk.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She thought about putting her coffee in the cup holder. Decided against it, because then what would she do with her hands?
“Are you expecting an apology?” he asked, eyes fixed on the road.
“For what?”
“For giving a damn.”
“For being bossy, you mean?” She winced slightly at her own words.
The car idled at a red light. He turned toward her. Reached over. Brushed a loose strand of ebony silk from her shoulder.
His fingers only grazed her sleeve, but it sparked through her like a fuse. Her skin felt too tight, too alert, every nerve tuned to him.
“Maybe you like it,” he murmured.
Deny deny deny. It was like a warning bell in her mind.
Instead, she said softly, “Light’s green, Gage. We’re going to be late.”
He looked at her like she’d just proven his point. She pretended not to understand.
He accelerated.
They hadn’t even reached their seats, and Bea already knew she’d miscalculated.
Stepping into the theatre’s reception area felt less like arriving at a student play and more like walking into the inside of a crown—red velvet, gold filigree, and chandeliers so large they had gravity. A sweeping staircase cut through the space, flanked by ornate railings and towering portraits.
Belatedly, she pulled her phone out and Google-translated the nickname of the theatre, which she’d heard Georgina and the girls use between themselves once or twice, from Dutch to English.
Kroon Zaal.
Oh. Right.
That explained the unabashed opulence.
It was already buzzing when they arrived. Gage moved beside her, close enough that the crowd shifted around them. He didn’t touch her, but somehow still directed the path.
Her dress was elegant but simple. Delicate lace in dove grey, high neckline, short sleeves, hem just below her knees. Classic. Timeless. Exactly the kind of thing she’d thought would suit a university theatre production.
But the crowd wasn’t just students. Professors, alumni, men in tailored suits, women with diamonds glinting at their throats and wrists.
A woman swept past in a floor-length gown.
These weren’t merely guests. They were patrons and benefactors.
The class of people who didn’t just attend a university event. They funded it.
She was underdressed.
Gage, by contrast, looked completely at ease. His grey three-piece suit was perfectly cut, the vest smooth against his torso. Even in a room full of money, he still managed to look like he owned the place.