Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Aaron
Every single day, I tell myself the same thing: she’s the asset. Keep the line. Do the job. Walk away clean when it’s over.
Every single day I fail a little more.
It started small. A laugh she lets slip when I burn the edges of the toast and she calls me “Chef Jenkins” with that teasing lilt that makes my chest ache.
A stubborn comment when she refuses to let me carry the heavy stack of printed records from the printer to the table, and then she trips over the rug anyway, and I catch her by the waist before she falls.
The way she looks at me when she realizes my hands are still on her, steady, lingering, like they belong there.
Small things.
But they’re killing me.
This morning, she walks out of the bedroom wearing my navy flannel again. Sleeves rolled to her elbows, hem hitting mid-thigh, bare legs that go on forever. She’s got the top two buttons undone, and the collar is crooked, exposing the soft hollow of her throat.
She catches me staring.
“What?” she asks, voice sleepy and amused. “You said this flannel was warmer.”
I swallow. “It is.”
She smiles and walks barefoot to the coffee maker. The hem of the shirt shifts with every step. I force my eyes to the ceiling.
“You gonna stand there all day or help me make breakfast?” she calls over her shoulder.
I exhale through my nose. “I’m coming.”
We cook together. She cracks eggs while I fry bacon. Our elbows brush. She bumps her hip against mine on purpose when she reaches for the salt. I bump back, maybe a little harder than necessary because of frustration, and she laughs, bright and unguarded.
“You’re terrible at sharing counter space,” she teases.
“You’re terrible at staying out of my way.”
She turns, presses her back to the counter so we’re face-to-face, inches apart. “Maybe I like being in your way.”
My hands flex at my sides. I want to cage her there, palms on either side of her hips, body pinning hers. Instead, I reach past her for the spatula, deliberately letting my arm brush the side of her breast.
She sucks in a breath.
I pretend I don’t notice.
We eat on the kitchen island. She sits on the stool next to mine, close enough that her knee rests against my thigh the whole time. Every time she leans to grab the salt or the pepper, her shoulder presses into mine. Every time she licks butter off her thumb, I have to look away.
After breakfast, we move to the table for work.
We’re making progress. Mae sent another batch of bank transfer records pulled from a subpoenaed account, emails between Ramsey’s assistant and Tate’s private account, and timestamps that line up with the zoning approvals like clockwork.
It’s stronger proof. Enough to start building the case for real.
Megan’s eyes light up when she sees the new files. She leans over my shoulder, hair brushing my cheek, her breath warm on my neck.
“Look at this,” she whispers, finger tracing a wire transfer. “Two hundred thousand, same day the variance was approved. They didn’t even try to hide it.”
I nod. “Sloppy. Arrogant.”
She turns her head. Our faces are so close I can count her eyelashes. “We’ve got them.”
“We do.”
She smiles—slow, triumphant, beautiful.
I want to kiss her, but I don’t.
We work through the afternoon.
Megan curls up on the couch with a legal pad, sketching timelines, muttering to herself. I sit at the table, pretending to read emails, but I’m watching her. The way she bites her lower lip when she’s thinking. The way she tucks a curl behind her ear. The way she looks peaceful, focused, alive.
I’m falling hard.
Movie night is my idea.
“Break,” I say around 8 p.m. “We’ve been at this for twelve hours. Brain needs a reset.”
She raises a brow. “What are you suggesting?”
“I have all the streaming services. You can pick a movie or a television show to watch.”
Her smile is slow. “Scandalous. Bedroom or living room?”
I shrug. “Couch is more comfortable.”
She picks an old Western, something with John Wayne. I don’t care what it is. I care that she’s sitting next to me, legs tucked under her, head eventually dropping to my shoulder.
I freeze.
She sighs, soft and content, and nestles closer.
My arm goes around her before I can stop it.
She falls asleep halfway through the movie, face tucked against my neck, one hand curled over my heart.
I sit there for a long time, staring at the screen without seeing it.
Then I carry her to bed.
Again.
This time, when I lay her down, she murmurs something sleepy, reaches for me.
“Aaron…”
I freeze.
She tugs at my shirt. “Stay.”
My heart slams.
“I shouldn’t.”
“Please.” Her voice is soft, vulnerable, half-asleep. “Stay and hold me.”
I close my eyes.
Then I give in.
I kick off my boots, slide in beside her, and pull her against my chest.
She sighs, happy and content, and burrows closer, face pressed to my throat, hand splaying over my heart.
I wrap my arm around her waist, hand resting on the small of her back.
We fall asleep like that.
When morning comes, I wake first.
She’s still curled against me, one leg thrown over mine, hand over my heart, face tucked into my neck. Her breathing is soft, steady. My arm is around her waist, fingers splayed across her back under the T-shirt, skin to skin.
I don’t move. I just let myself feel her warmth, her heartbeat against mine, and the way she fits like she was made for this spot.
She stirs. Her eyes flutter open, and she sees me. A smile, sweet and unguarded, flashes across her face.
“Morning,” she whispers.
“Morning.”
She doesn’t move away.
Neither do I.
We lie there, tangled, hearts beating in time.
I brush a curl off her forehead.
“You’re in my bed,” I say.
“You carried me here.”
“You asked me to stay.”
She smiles. “I did.”
I swallow. “This is dangerous.”
“I know.”
I cup her face. “I’m losing the battle, Megan.”
Her eyes soften. “Then stop fighting.”
I close my eyes. When I open them, I’m lost. I kiss her, and she kisses me back.
I’m hers.
Completely.