11. Skye
Skye
I ’m tangled in my sheets, unable to sleep wearing nothing but Reece Blackwood’s lingering stare. It’s stupid. Reckless. Delusional, even. But I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me tonight.
Like he forgot where we were. Like he forgot who we were.
I roll onto my stomach and press my cheek into the pillow, a ridiculous grin spreading across my face like I’m sixteen again and just got asked to prom by the—I squeeze my eyes, my stomach dropping for a second when I’m reminded that I actually did do this same thing… when I was sixteen… about his son.
God, I ’ m pathetic and completely fucked up.
But also? So fucking turned on from tonight’s interaction with Reece. My entire body is humming. I feel like I swallowed a dozen butterflies and washed them down with champagne. Warm, fizzy, impossible to ignore.
The second he walked into that gallery, I felt his eyes on me.
I knew the dress was a risk, bare-backed, satin, scandalously short.
No bra. But Maya said I looked like a “classy slutty angel,” and that felt like exactly the vibe I needed.
And I sure as shit didn’t know Reece would be there.
Didn’t know how it would feel to see him out of that office. God, the man in a suit is lethal.
Unfair. Truly unfair. And then he spoke to me.
I close my eyes, replaying every second like it’s a scene from the rom-com I’ve apparently decided we’re starring in.
“Distracted.”
The way his voice dipped low on that word, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to scold me or devour me. I bit my lip. I remember that. Because I wanted to say something flirty, something coy. But I was too busy trying not to melt into a puddle of want.
The moment hangs in my mind like a portrait in a museum, framed, lit just right, unforgettable.
God, what if he had kissed me?
What if, instead of holding himself back like I know he was, he’d just reached out and tugged me close? Slid a hand down my bare back and tilted my chin up with that confident, no-bullshit grip I know he’s capable of?
Is that what this is about? Does he want me to be the one to make the first move? Would that give him the absolution he needs considering who his son is?
I shiver under the covers, imagining if I had reached up onto my tiptoes and pressed my lips to his.
He’d whisper something filthy, wouldn’t he? Rough, the evidence of his control slipping in my ear— You knew exactly what this dress would do to me, didn ’ t you?
And I’d breathe out something bold like… I hope it makes you lose control, and then we’d be against the nearest wall, his mouth hot on my neck, his thigh sliding between mine, and I— “Jesus, Skye,” I groan, burying my face in the pillow.
This is not normal. This is not professional. This is not sustainable. In fact, it’s mildly fucked up but add in that ex’s dad factor and it catapults into a Jerry Springer style category.
But tonight cracked something open. Or maybe it magnified what was already there. He looked at me like I was dangerous. And I liked it.
I roll onto my back, kicking one foot out from under the sheets, trying to cool down. But all I can think about is how his gaze dropped to my thighs. How his voice had a sharp edge to it, like he was warning himself more than me.
I don’t know what that makes me. I don’t know if I care. Because for a few stolen minutes tonight, I felt… wanted and desired. Not tolerated. Not pitied. Not compared to the girl I used to be. Just seen .
And it wasn’t some drunken frat boy or a guy swiping right for a hookup.
It was him. The man who reads people like spreadsheets.
The one who’s built a fortress around him for decades.
And he wants me. My phone buzzes on the nightstand, pulling me out of my not-so-innocent fantasy spiral.
I reach for it and see a text from Maya.
Maya: You get home okay?
Maya: Also, you were 100% correct, that dress is illegal. Pretty sure I watched a silver fox nearly have an aneurysm trying to hold himself back from devouring you tonight.
I snort and type back.
Me: I got home, changed into pajamas, and totally did not spend the last hour replaying a 90-second conversation with said silver fox.
Maya: Liar.
Maya: Want me to come over tomorrow and debrief? I ’ ll bring caffeine and zero judgment.
I smile at the screen.
Me: Maybe. I ’ ll let you know in the morning.
I set the phone back down and stare at the ceiling. This can’t be one-sided. It’s not. I know what I saw. The way his hands curled into fists like he was holding something back. The muscle in his jaw that jumped when I turned around.
Maybe he’s still trying to figure out what this is. Hell, I ’ m still trying to figure out what this is. But tonight felt like the beginning of something. Like a door opening. And I’m already walking through it.
I tell myself I’m not waiting for anything.
I even pack up like I mean it. I shut down my computer, slide my charger into my bag, and make a show of stretching my arms over my head like a woman ready to call it a day.
But then I check the time and glance toward his office. Still here. And so am I. I sit back down slowly, convincing myself I should finish one more report. Or reply to one last email. Something responsible. Something that makes staying late seem like anything other than what it is.
The frost routine was back in place today. There were no stolen glances, no I can’t stop thinking about you in that dress confessions. Just another day at the office with a man who is not only a workaholic but seems to have ratcheted it up just to avoid spending a single second alone with me.
I sigh, glancing toward his door one more time, making a deal with myself in my head that I’ll stop with the silly fantasy stuff if he doesn’t address it today.
Because if last night meant nothing to him, if it was a fluke, a flicker, some illusion conjured by gallery lights and too much space between us, then he’ll walk out of his office without a word.
He’ll leave me sitting here, alone and slightly overdressed, with nothing but my overactive imagination and the ghost of something that never really existed.
But if it did mean something… If he saw me the way I saw him… Maybe he’ll say something. Maybe he’ll finally break the silence.
I open the spreadsheet again, though I don’t look at it. I can feel him on the other side of the glass like I can sense him. That coiled restraint, that presence that fills every square foot without making a sound.
I’ve taken off my shoes. My blazer is draped over the back of my chair.
I undid the top button of my blouse twenty minutes ago in a desperate attempt to breathe a little easier, but it hasn’t helped.
My body feels too hot and too tight, like it’s trying to warn me I’ve crossed into dangerous territory.
I stare at the screen and pretend not to notice when he steps into the doorway of his office.
“You planning to move in?” His voice is quiet.
I twist in my chair to face him. “Didn’t realize I was on a timer.”
“You’re not.” He leans against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket, his tie gone and sleeves rolled, that last layer of polish stripped down to something far more dangerous.
“Well then.” I gesture vaguely at the screen. “Just trying to earn my keep.”
“You’ve done more than that already.”
There’s a beat of silence, not awkward but thick with subtext. I close the spreadsheet, suddenly aware that the excuse is flimsy at best.
“I should go,” I say softly.
“You should,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move. Neither do I.
We just watch each other. The distance between us feels like it’s shrinking, even though neither of us has taken a step. The air has changed. Not charged, exactly. Not yet. But expectant. My pulse flutters in my throat.
“You’re not making this easy,” I say, unsure whether I’m teasing or confessing.
He doesn't flinch, doesn’t look away. “It’s not supposed to be.”
His answer knocks the air from my lungs a little more than it should.
I stand, smoothing my blouse, not because it needs it but because I need something to do with my hands. My heels are tucked under my desk, but I don’t reach for them. I take a step toward him instead.
“I’ve been trying to decide if I’m reading too much into this,” I say. “If maybe you’re just naturally… intense.” He says nothing, but his jaw tightens. “I keep thinking maybe I imagined it,” I continue. “That it’s all in my head. The way you look at me. The way you go quiet when I speak.”
He exhales, like he’s trying very hard not to let something slip. “You didn’t imagine it.”
The room tilts slightly. Not in a dizzying way, but in that slow, inevitable shift that happens right before a kiss you know you shouldn’t allow. I take another step, then pause. “This is a bad idea.”
“It is,” he says. Still not moving. Still watching me like I’m the thing threatening to unravel everything he’s built.
“Less than sixteen weeks,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.
He nods once, like he’s reminding himself of the same thing. “And after that?”
I swallow hard. “I don’t know.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to touch me. Not because he moves, but because everything in his body language screams restraint. Like he’s holding himself together by a thread and I’m standing here with scissors.
But then suddenly, he steps back. “Go home, Skye.” His voice is low, steady, final. And it cuts clean.
I could make a snarky remark or even a defiant one. Tell him no or to make me and see what happens but I don’t. I’m a little too embarrassed.
I don’t say anything as I grab my shoes and jacket and move past him.
I walk to the elevator without looking back.
The air is cool against my skin, the floor too loud under bare feet, but I don’t rush.
I don’t cry. I don’t breathe until the elevator doors close behind me. Only then do I let my shoulders fall.
Instead of crying though, I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Maya.
Me: Fuck men.