Chapter 20
CAYDEN
My hand reaches blindly across the wide expanse of the mattress and finds nothing but smooth, cool fabric.
When I open my eyes, the harsh morning light floods through the large windows of my bedroom, forcing me to squint my lids shut again instantly.
I roll onto my back, running a hand through my hair, and take a deep breath.
The room is empty. The heavy duvet on the other side is neatly turned back, the pillow bearing only a faint indentation where her head rested last night.
Her intoxicating scent, however, still clings stubbornly to the fibers of the expensive cotton. It mixes with the raw, unmistakable smell of sweaty skin and the remnant of the Gin and Tonic, which immediately puts my senses back into a state of emergency.
Jade has slipped away.
I sit up slowly, a dull ache in my shoulder protesting.
The fine, stinging pain on my back runs exactly where she dug her fingernails into my flesh in the early hours of the morning.
I run a hand over my face, feeling the rough stubble on my chin.
Normally, I feel a deep, sincere relief when I wake up in the morning and my bedmate is gone.
I hate the forced breakfast, the meaningless small talk over coffee, and that unspoken expectation that hangs like a noose around my neck.
The women I’ve wasted my time with over the last few years all wanted a piece of Cayden Miller.
But not of the person—of the billionaire.
Last night, none of that was in the room.
There was no calculating hesitation, no fake admiration.
There was only this pure, raw desperation with which Jade clung to me, as if I were the only fixed point in a universe collapsing around her.
The feeling of her trembling beneath me, of her whispering my name into the darkness, struck a chord in me that I had successfully ignored for over a decade.
It was a connection that anchored itself massively and unshakably in my chest. A realization that, quite honestly, unearths more worry in me than any threat of a deal falling through.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and pull on a pair of gray joggers.
In the kitchen, I see Helena standing at the sink, polishing the silverware with calm, steady motions. When she notices me, she immediately places a large mug under the coffee machine's outlet.
"Good morning, Mr. Miller. Did you sleep well?" she asks in her usual neutral tone.
"Morning, Helena. The night was short," I grunt, taking the hot ceramic mug.
The first sip of black coffee burns pleasantly in my throat, clearing the last remaining fog of alcohol.
I lean my hip against the kitchen island and let my gaze wander through the room.
"Where’s the boy? Has he not raided the kitchen yet this morning? "
Helena places the polished knife into the velvet-lined drawer. "Parker has already had breakfast. Henry took him into town half an hour ago. They wanted to check out the new sports shop downtown. Henry promised to show him the latest stick models."
I nod in approval. Henry knows exactly how to keep the boy occupied. "And Miss Sterling?"
"She put on her running shoes nearly an hour ago and left the house," my housekeeper reports, pulling a fresh cloth from the cupboard. "She specifically asked me to tell you that she will be punctual for the interview appointment at ten o'clock."
In other words: She needs to clear her head before she can face me again.
"Thanks, Helena," I say, pushing off the island and taking my coffee outside.
I step through the high glass doors onto the expansive terrace.
The Montreal morning is showing its best side.
The sun is already high in the sky, warming the light stone slabs under my bare feet; a light, fresh breeze blows over from the nearby water, rustling the leaves of the old trees bordering my property.
I walk to the stone balustrade, rest my forearms on the warm material, and look down the long, winding gravel path leading to the back garden gate.
After about ten minutes, I hear the rhythmic crunch of sneakers on the fine gravel.
Jade appears at the gate. She’s wearing black, tight-fitting leggings and a simple gray tank top that clings to her sweaty body.
She’s tied her hair into a messy knot at the nape of her neck, with several wet strands sticking to her cheeks and neck.
Her breathing is heavy and labored; she has clearly pushed herself to her physical limit over the last few miles (as if I hadn't already done that last night).
As she reaches the terrace steps and sees me standing at the balustrade, her running pace slows immediately to a hesitant walk. A visible hitch goes through her limbs. I watch her take a deep breath and square her shoulders before she covers the last few meters toward me.
I take a relaxed sip from my coffee mug before I smile at her.
"Good morning," I chime, my gaze wandering completely unashamedly over her glistening skin, catching the fine beads of sweat on her collarbone and lingering on the rapid movement of her chest. "You’re an early bird. You should have told me; we could have moved breakfast straight to the bed."
Jade stops at a safe distance of two meters. She plants her hands on her hips, audibly struggling for oxygen. Her face is deeply flushed, but the color in her cheeks has nothing to do with athletic exertion in this moment. She avoids my direct gaze, staring instead at the house wall behind me.
"Morning, Cayden," she replies. Her voice is scratchy; the soft surrender of last night has given way to a brittle, extremely tense professional tone. "I needed to move. My head was too full."
I push off from the railing and take a slow step in her direction. She doesn't flinch, but I see the muscles in her neck tighten. The salty scent of sweat and physical exertion wafts toward me, immediately waking that hungry pull in my lower abdomen.
"We don’t have our official appointment for another forty minutes," I note quietly, stepping another pace closer until I can feel the heat radiating from her body after the run. I raise my free hand and gently brush a wet strand of hair from her forehead. "That’s more than enough time. We could jump in the shower together. I’ll wash your back; you ask me your questions about my sponsorship deals. Highly time-efficient."
My fingers glide softly down her cheek—an open, unmistakable offer that immediately revives the memory of her naked skin under my hands.
But instead of falling into the touch like last night, Jade lightning-fast raises her hand and grips my wrist. Her grip is firm, almost defensive. She moves my hand away from her face decisively but without aggressive haste and takes a full step back.
"Stop it, Cayden," she says softly.
I frown and let my arm drop. There’s no feigned indignation in her eyes, no coquettish blocking. There is only a deep, sincere torn-ness building up like an invisible wall between us.
"Jade," I begin, and the mocking undertone vanishes instantly from my voice. "We’re alone. The boy is out with Henry. You don’t have to put on a show out here."
"This isn't a show," she cuts me off, wiping her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand.
She forces herself to look me directly in the eye now.
"Last night... that was a mistake. A giant, monumental mistake.
The alcohol, the game, all the talk about the past. I let myself get carried away. But it doesn't change the facts."
"A mistake?" I repeat, feeling my jaw tighten.
"You’re seriously going to tell me to my face that you were thinking about a mistake in my bed yesterday?
You screamed like there was no tomorrow, Jade.
You clung to me like your life depended on it.
That wasn't residual alcohol. That was the pure truth, and you know it damn well. "
She swallows hard. A fleeting pain flickers across her features—proof that my words hit their mark. But she only stands a little straighter and pulls her protective facade back up mercilessly.
"I’m not denying it was good, Cayden," she replies, her voice taking on that extremely smooth, detached tone I despise so much. "But we don’t live in the past anymore. I’m not that girl from Thunder Bay, and you’re not the player who wants to conquer the world.
We have a business arrangement. I’m here to do a job.
I have responsibility for Parker; I have responsibility for my family.
I can’t afford slips like this. It won’t happen again. "
I stare at her. The conviction with which she formulates this lie borders on madness. She’s trying with all her might to pack the smoldering fire between us into a sterile, controllable box and nail the lid shut.
"You’re lying to yourself," I say quietly, not stepping back. "You can hide behind your notebook and this job as long as you want. But you’re running from something that’s going to catch up with you anyway."
"I’m not running," she answers. She turns away and walks toward the open glass doors. "I’m going to shower now. Alone. I’ll see you at exactly ten o'clock in the study."
I let her pass me, feeling the draft of her movement and breathing in the salty scent of her skin before she disappears into the cool shadow of the house.
The coffee in my mug has gone lukewarm by now and tastes extremely bitter. I carelessly pour the remaining contents into the flowerbed next to the balustrade.
She actually thinks she can act as if nothing happened. But if she thinks I’ll just let that happen, she knows me even worse than I thought.