Chapter 15
ARDEN
I didn’t hear the entire conversation, just fragments. Names. Places. I gathered enough information to let me know this event matters, but not nearly enough to tell me why.
Most of it blurred together the second it left their mouths. There was just one thing that stood out.
Arden’s coming with me.
He spoke the words with an ease that told me the decision had been made long before he bothered to say it out loud. Locke stated it like a fact. Nate responded with concern for his brother’s reputation, disguised as strategy. I wasn’t a person in that conversation; I was a pawn.
And Nate’s face? Tight-jawed and overly cautious, his gaze constantly assessing. It’s clear that he sees me as just another liability.
Fair enough. I know I’m not here because anyone trusts me. I’m here because I’m “useful,” as Locke put it.
Honestly, his suspicion tells me more than his approval ever could. Men like him don’t waste that kind of scrutiny on people who don’t matter. Whatever his reason, I don’t have time to dissect it now.
And whatever this week holds, I have a feeling I won’t have a say in any of it.
Two days later, I’m sitting at Locke’s kitchen counter while he makes espresso like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The week hasn’t been difficult, but it hasn’t been comfortable, either. There’s a constant awareness between us, like the air is humming with electricity. Every time we end up in the same room, it feels intentional, even when it’s not.
Apart from that, it’s almost like a vacation. Luxury estate, top-tier amenities, and apparently a personal barista.
“You've seriously never had espresso?” He’s staring at me like I have two heads or something. “You've never had a latte? Cappuccino?”
I shake my head. “I never knew what to order, so I just stuck with regular coffee. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?”
“No,” Locke huffs. “That’s unacceptable.”
I arch a brow. “Unacceptable?”
“We’re fixing it. Right now.”
He pours milk into a silver pitcher and places it under the steam wand. His movements are practiced and precise. I watch as he tilts the pitcher just enough for airy foam to form on the surface.
When he hands me the steaming mug, our fingers brush. It’s nothing, barely a second, but my chest tightens anyway.
He doesn’t pull his hand away immediately, doesn’t look away either. His attention fixes on me with an intensity that makes the steam curling from the mug feel hotter.
“You’re going to let it cool down if you keep staring at it,” he says.
“You’re the one staring,” I retort.
“I just want to know if you like it,” he urges, motioning for me to hurry.
As I lift the mug to my lips, his eyes stay locked on mine.
I watched him make the damn thing. There’s nothing in the cup but espresso and milk, but the way he’s watching makes my nerves hum. I consider asking why this matters to him. I decide against it.
“Well, you’re right. That is delicious,” I say, wiping a thin line of foam from my lips and setting the mug on the counter. “Next time, less milk.”
He smiles a real, genuine smile. “Noted. I’m glad you liked it.”
I give him a sly smile. “Thanks for a great first time.”
A chuckle slips through his lips. “Keep saying things like that, and I might think you actually like me.”
I shift my eyes away from his, looking down at the granite countertop. Damn it, I need to keep my 12-year-old sense of humor in check. I have no business flirting with him. This is a job. I’m an employee.
The smile fades from his face, and my thoughts are interrupted by his voice, low and serious once again. “You should get ready. We’re going shopping.”
“Shopping?” I repeat.
“Yeah. This gala isn’t exactly a jeans and t-shirt event.”
“Okay, then,” I mutter as I stand to head back to my room. “Thanks again for the coffee.”
He stays silent, giving me a half-smile as I head down the hall.