7. Dana - The Glow
Chapter Seven
DANA - THE GLOW
T he coffee is hot. Too hot. I take a slow sip anyway, letting the burn settle deep in my chest, anything to shake off the sluggish weight of last night.
The morning sprawls out around me—golden sunlight, crisp linens, the quiet hum of yacht engines cutting through still waters. It should be peaceful. It should feel like any other morning.
But I feel her watching me.
I’m halfway through a perfectly cooked omelet when I feel it—Mrs. Harris’s gaze. The scrutiny. The mischief. The knowing .
“Well, don’t you look radiant this morning,” Mrs. Harris muses, voice smooth as honey and just as sticky.
My fork pauses mid-bite. My stomach sinks.
“Excuse me?”
Mrs. Harris simply smiles, leaning forward like she’s settling in for a particularly juicy piece of gossip.
“You’ve got a glow, dear,” her eyes twinkle, amused and merciless. “The kind women get when they’re… happy.”
Happy?
I glance across the table at Nathan, who’s deep in conversation with her husband about the finer points of architectural design. My boss—the bane of my existence—looks as polished as ever, his tie loosened and his charm dialed up to eleven.
I roll my eyes and set my fork down. “I think it’s just the fresh sea air.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Harris says, waving a hand. “That glow isn’t from the ocean. It’s from him .” The same hand she waved now has a finger pointing directly at Nathan.
In broad daylight, no less!
I lift my glass, barely processing the absurdity of this situation—until Mrs. Harris leans in, her smile far too knowing.
“You two are magnetic together,” she muses, tilting her head. “It’s almost unfair to the rest of us.”
I choke. Coffee burns down the wrong pipe, and I lurch forward, coughing into my napkin. Nathan turns at the sound, his brow furrowing. A second later, Mrs. Harris is rubbing my back like I’m a child.
“Oh, come now,” she soothes. “Surely that’s not such a shocking observation?”
Nathan doesn’t say anything, but I catch the slow tilt of his head, the assessing look in his gaze flicks between Mrs. Harris and me. Like he’s piecing something together.
I force a tight smile and give him a quick nod, praying he doesn’t bring this up again later.
“How long have you two been in love?” Mrs. Harris asks, her tone conspiratorial now.
I laugh nervously, bringing my hands down to my lap and fidgeting with my soft napkin. “I—I wouldn’t call it love . It’s more… more complicated than that.”
She hums thoughtfully, as if I’ve just confessed a secret worth analyzing. “Complicated is often another word for passionate.”
I don’t have a response to that. My throat tightens, a sharp pressure lodging behind my ribs. Passionate. The word clings to my skin, seeping under it, making something in me recoil—and lean in—at the same time.
Because she’s not wrong.
I force a laugh that comes out too thin, too brittle. I shouldn’t care how Nathan is watching me now, shouldn’t care that I can feel his gaze tracking every micro-expression I can’t quite suppress. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out my thoughts before I can make sense of them.
Instead, I excuse myself, muttering something about needing fresh air as I practically flee the dining room.
I find a quiet spot on the deck. I relish in the cool breeze as it sprays against my skin, a sharp contrast to the tension in my fingers as I grip the railing and try to steady my thoughts.
Love?
The word wedges itself into my brain, impossible to ignore now that it’s there. It doesn’t belong—not with me. Not with him.
The idea is ridiculous. I mean, sure, Nathan and I have a… connection. But love?
I replay last night in my head—his words, his touch, the way he kissed me like he couldn’t stop himself. My stomach twists, and I hate the flutter of uncertainty that follows.
Mrs. Harris’s voice loops in my mind. You’ve got a glow, dear.
Was she right? Is there something more between us? Something I’ve been too afraid to name?
I don’t know.
I hate not knowing.
I grip my phone, staring at the screen like it holds the answer.
One call. Just to talk. Just to hear Chelsea tell me I’m being ridiculous.
Before I can second-guess myself, I press the call button.
The line rings once. Twice.
“You better not be calling me to cover up a murder,” Chelsea answers, voice dry. “Because I swear to God, Dana, I love you, but I am not built for prison.”
Despite everything, I huff out a laugh. “Relax. No dead bodies this time.”
“So just emotional carnage, then?” she deadpans. “Great. You know how I love starting my morning with existential crises that aren’t mine.”
I hesitate, fingers tightening around my phone. I spill everything, reciting the…activities of the past few days to my best friend. Once I’m done, my breathing only comes in shallow spurts. Am I having a panic attack? Chelsea catches it in the silence instantly.
“Wait,” her voice shifts, sharp with disbelief. “Back up. Start over.”
I sigh, pacing the deck as I hold the phone to my ear. “I already told you everything. What part of ‘I dry humped my boss on a yacht’ isn’t clear?”
“All of it,” she wails. “Because, Dana, this sounds like something out of one of those spicy romance novels you keep recommending to me.”
I groan, pressing my free hand to my forehead. “It’s not like that. It’s complicated.”
“Complicated?” Chelsea laughs, her voice brimming with mischief. “That’s code for you’re already hooked and trying to fight it.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Okay, okay,” she says, her tone softening. “So, you had a hot make out session with Nathan. How do you feel about it?”
“That’s the thing,” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t know. It was… unexpected. But it felt—” I stop, struggling to find the right word.
“Right?” she offers.
I sigh. “Yeah.”
“And now you’re wondering if you’re in love with him.”
“I’m not wondering,” I snap, but it’s weak, and Chelsea knows it. I know it.
“Dana,” she says gently, “if it didn’t mean anything, you wouldn’t have called me.”
I lean against the railing, my head tilting back as I stare up at the sky. She’s right, of course. She always is.
“It’s just… Nathan’s my boss ,” I whisper the last word directly into the microphone, my voice barely audible between the proximity and the wind. “And he’s infuriating. And arrogant. And impossible.”
“But?”
“ But ,” I admit reluctantly, “he can also be funny. And thoughtful—did I mention that he got books delivered to the boat so I could have reading material? And… he believes in me in a way no one else ever has.”
There’s a long pause on Chelsea’s end, and I can almost hear her smirking through the phone. “Sounds like you’ve got it bad.”
I groan again, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I don’t know what to do, Chels.”
“First of all,” she commands, her tone teasing now, “stop panicking. Second, figure out what you want. Do you want to keep pretending this is just a work thing, or do you want to see where it goes?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy and unanswerable. Unanswerable because I don’t want to think about it, or because I know the answer, and it scares me?
“I’ll think about it,” I say finally, though even as I say the words, my mind is already spinning in a thousand different directions.
“You’d better,” Chelsea threatens playfully. “And for the record, I’m rooting for you two. Unlike when you dated Zee Worse. And The Disaster before him. And let’s not speak of The Ghoster.”
I groan. “Okay, okay, I get it.”
“Do you?” Chelsea teases. “Because I still have nightmares about that time you tried to convince me Zee Worse just had ‘European charm’ instead of red flags the size of France.”
I cover my eyes with my free hand. “You agreed we were never speaking of this again.”
“That was before you brought me another man to judge. It’s tradition now.”
I sigh, but my lips twitch. “And Nathan?”
“Jury’s still out,” she says. “But I’m rooting for him. He might actually be worth it.”
I laugh softly, shaking my head. “We’ll see.”
When I finally hang up, I feel a little lighter, but the weight of Mrs. Harris’s words still linger.
Am I in love with Nathan?
The question echoes in my mind as I make my way back to our suite. For someone whose life revolves around answering difficult questions, I don’t know if I’m ready for this one.
The function that Nathan sprung on me is more extravagant than I expected—an open-air gala on the dock, where twinkling lights reflect off the water, and the air is thick with the scent of salt and fresh flowers.
After docking, a private car had been waiting to take us a short distance to the venue—because of course Nathan wouldn’t have me stepping onto the pavement in heels and a gown like some common guest. No, this is about appearances. About ensuring every detail, down to my entrance, is perfect. Soft music hums beneath the pulse of my heart in my ears.
Why the hell am I nervous?
The ride isn’t long, but when I step out of the car in the emerald-green dress he had waiting for me, the world seems to still, as if holding its breath. The fabric clings in all the right places, luxurious against my skin, its deep green hue a striking match for Nathan’s sharp gaze when he sees me.
Nathan’s reaction is predatory, but it doesn’t scare me. His eyes darken, dragging over me with a slow, deliberate intensity that makes my stomach flip. His jaw tightens and his gaze rests finally on my face, like he’s fighting every instinct not to close the distance between us.
“You’re stunning,” he breathes, stepping close enough that his voice is meant for my ears alone. His hand brushes my lower back, lingering.
And just like that, I feel trapped.
Not by the dress, not by the event—but by the weight of his attention, heavy enough to make my stomach flip.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I manage, my voice tighter than I’d like. He’s in a sharp black suit, perfectly tailored, and the confidence he exudes could make a king bow to him.
The gala is a glittering whirlwind—champagne flowing like rivers, laughter lacing every corner, and music wrapping around us like a tangible force. The scent of salt and jasmine lingers in the air, blending with the warmth of candlelight flickering in glass lanterns along the dockside.
Nathan guides me forward with his hand at the small of my back, a touch that should feel familiar by now, but tonight, it’s different. It’s a quiet claim. A subtle declaration, even in a room full of power players and high society elites.
I force my shoulders to relax, scanning the crowd. Harris is here, of course, engaged in deep conversation with a senator near the terrace. Eleanor is laughing with a group of wives, already at ease. And me? I should be networking, schmoozing, playing my role, but instead, I feel hyper aware of the man at my side.
Nathan is in his element. Effortlessly composed, his presence a magnet for attention. People nod in greeting, exchanging subtle smiles, but his focus doesn’t waver. He keeps me close, moving with the confidence of someone who already owns the room.
I reach for a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, desperate for something to ground me.
"You’re not so bad yourself," I mumble, mocking myself. That was monumentally dumb. Good job, Dana .
His lips twitch. “Did you expect me to fumble my way through this?” The fact that he heard it, and responded, startles me.
“Would’ve been nice to see you a little less perfect,” I admit, sipping my drink.
His smirk deepens, but he doesn’t reply. Instead, he watches me, amusement flickering behind his gaze like he can see straight through me.
The weight of it sends a nervous heat curling in my stomach. I glance away, willing myself to find something else to focus on.
Before I can, his voice dips lower, curling around me like a promise.
“Care to dance?” His voice dips low. “Or should I carry you there and save us both the trouble?”
I glance up at him, narrowing my eyes. “Is this part of the act?”
“Not entirely,” he replies, his lips curving up. Before I can argue, he takes my hand, threading our fingers together like he’s done it a thousand times before, and guides me into the spotlight.
And just like that, I’m lost.
Nathan Clarke is devastating on the dance floor.
He doesn’t lead so much as he commands.
Effortless. Controlled. Infuriatingly good at it.
He moves with the kind of confidence that should be illegal, like he was made for this—like he was made for ruining me. And the worst part? He makes me match him. His touch is firm but not forceful, guiding me without hesitation, like he knows I’ll follow.
Like he doesn’t have a single doubt that I’ll fall right in step with him.
Cocky bastard.
His palm slides lower. Deliberate. Claiming. The heat of it seeps through my dress, curling low in my stomach. I swallow hard. I swear he does it on purpose.
“You’re good at this,” I admit grudgingly, my voice soft.
His lips curve, lazy and knowing. “I’m good at a lot of things.”
My pulse jumps. My grip tightens against his shoulder, and his smirk deepens like he felt that reaction. Like he expected it.
“I don’t recall you ever being this smug,” I narrow my eyes, tilting my head.
His voice drops, rich and infuriating. “Only when I’m winning.”
The nerve !
I lean in closer, letting my breath ghost against his ear as I whisper, “I hate you.”
He inhales sharply, and when he speaks again, his voice is huskier, quieter. “No, you don’t.”
I should pull away. I should end this game before I lose.
But I don’t.
And neither does he.
The music shifts, slowing, but neither of us stops moving. His grip tightens, fingers flexing against my back, and his gaze flicks to my mouth. Dangerous.
That’s what this is. A slow, dangerous spiral I should be trying to escape.
Instead, I let myself fall deeper.