Chapter 5
Clara
The numbers won’t stay still today. They slide across the screen like oil on water, refusing to line up no matter how many times I blink or refocus. Somewhere between the supplier totals and the payroll projections, my brain simply refuses to cooperate.
Usually, numbers are my forte.
The espresso sitting beside my mouse pad isn’t helping. It’s gone cold and bitter, a burnt tang that clings to my tongue. I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast, but the thought of food turned my stomach. Everything feels unsettled, like the air before a storm.
Jeremy Weston.
I type his name in a new cell just to see it.
Then delete it. Then type it again, slower this time.
It looks too solid, too sure of itself, the kind of name that doesn’t blink under pressure.
I close the file before I can start imagining his hand braced on my desk or that voice again, the deep, unhurried baritone that vibrates more than it speaks, dangerous in its calm, stroking every nerve until my pulse forgets its rhythm.
My reflection in the black screen glares back at me, mocking me.
The blazer with the sharp shoulders is the kind that holds its shape even when I don’t.
The silk blouse drapes just right, hiding the weight I’ve lost. My makeup is heavier than usual, three layers of foundation and concealer smoothing the shadows beneath my eyes, lipstick a shade too bold for a workday.
None of it helps. I can keep the company steady, but not the pulse that jumps when I think of Jeremy Weston.
And the fact that I lay awake last night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if marrying him would really be as unappealing as I’ve always told myself.
I force myself back to the here and now.
A yearly inspection always knots my stomach. This year’s falls on a Saturday. They’ve never done that before. And it’s cause for me to worry.
The plant is as ready as it can be, but the list of what could go wrong hums quietly at the back of my mind.
A single sensor reading could drift half a degree.
A maintenance log might be misfiled. A supervisor could forget to initial a checklist. The inspector won’t care that we’ve doubled production or cut waste by ten percent.
He’ll care if one tag is missing from a machine.
And then there’s my father.
His call came before sunrise, his voice thick with that familiar mix of charm and guilt. He’d found a new investment, a “sure thing” this time. Just a bridge loan, just until next month. I hung up before he could finish the pitch, but the words stick anyway. Just. Always just.
I rub the bridge of my nose, careful not to smudge the concealer. The headache building behind my eyes feels like it started years ago.
“Clara?”
Tess leans into the doorway, tablet in hand, brows drawn. “The shipping report’s missing the revised totals for line three. Do you want me to—”
“I’ll handle it,” I say too quickly. My tone makes her blink. I take a slow breath and soften it. “Just email me the draft. I’ll sign off once I’ve checked the figures.”
She nods and disappears, leaving the faint scent of vanilla lotion in the air. The office goes still again, save for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the steady pulse in my throat.
I open the spreadsheet again. The numbers blur once more.
Jeremy’s face flashes uninvited. The quiet command in his eyes. The certainty in his voice when he said we were always going to end up here.
I close the file a second time and push the espresso cup away before I’m tempted to finish it. The taste in my mouth is already sour enough.
I leave the office before the spreadsheets can mock me again. The factory hums on the other side of the glass hallway, steady and familiar, the sound of motion I can control.
The heat hits first. Even with the fans working, the air is thicker down here, touched with oil and metal and the faint sweetness of coolant. Machines thrum in rhythm, a mechanical heartbeat that settles something restless inside me.
“Morning, Ms. Bennett,” Earl calls from the line, his voice carrying easily over the hum of the machines.
He’s been here longer than anyone except the elder Weston, long enough that I can still picture him showing me how to read pressure gauges when I was sixteen and stubbornly determined to learn.
His hair’s gone more silver than not, his smile still as crooked and sunny as ever.
“Press two’s good now,” he says, tapping the clipboard in his hand. “New seals in place, sensors recalibrated. Should run smoother than your espresso machine.”
“Let’s hope it runs longer too,” I answer, and that earns a chuckle.
Earl was one of the few who didn’t write me off when I first came down here, when most of the men looked at me and saw a kid who’d never last a month.
He taught me the work, not the talk, and never once acted surprised when I proved I could keep up.
“Let’s keep the log up to date for the inspection.
You know how they love their paperwork.”
He chuckles. “Already done. You trained us well.”
I smile my first genuine smile of the day. “I’m pretty sure you trained me.”
A few steps further, Marcy from assembly waves me over to show me a new safety sign she’s hung near the loading bay.
Bright yellow. Centered perfectly. She looks proud, and she should.
The floor gleams, bins labeled, aisles clear, every workstation tight and orderly. For once, the chaos looks contained.
For a moment, I let myself feel that small pulse of pride. The plant looks good. Better than it did six months ago. The upgrades, the discipline, the long hours, they all show.
I turn toward the back corridor, ready to check on the shipment logs, and stop dead.
Jeremy Weston stands by the loading dock, one hand braced on the railing, the other holding a clipboard he has no business having.
Jeans. Faded shirt rolled to his elbows.
No tie. The light from the high windows catches on the silver at his temples.
He looks like every confident, composed thought I’ve spent the morning trying not to have.
He shouldn’t look that good out of a suit.
“Checking up on your investment?” My words come out sharper than I mean to.
He looks up, the corner of his mouth tugging in something between a smile and a challenge. For a heartbeat, I wonder how those lips would feel against mine. The thought hits low and hot, and I shove it away with a quiet, frustrated breath.
“You run a clean operation,” he says. “Thought I’d see it for myself.”
I fold my arms, more to keep them steady than to prove a point. “If you wanted a tour, you could’ve asked.”
“I didn’t want a tour.” His gaze moves over the floor, the people, the polished order of it all. “I wanted to see the woman who keeps it moving.”
The air thickens. Not from heat or machines, but from something heavier, closer.
I force a breath through my nose. “You’ve seen her. Now let her work.”
“Not yet.” His voice drops, quiet but sure. “Walk with me.”
It isn’t a request. He turns toward the side corridor that leads to the old break room, the one no one uses since the renovation. I should tell him no. I should stay where I belong. Instead, my feet move.
The hum of the machines fades behind us. In the hush, I hear the small sounds—our shoes on the concrete, the slow creak of the door as he closes it behind us. The air smells faintly of dust and lemon cleaner.
He faces me, close enough that the heat of him settles against my skin. “You keep pretending this is just business,” he says, his voice steady, dangerous in its calm. “But we both know what’s coming.”
I swallow hard. “You mean the inspection?”
He shakes his head once, deliberate. “The marriage.”
My breath catches. “You’re assuming a lot.”
“No.” His hand comes up, stopping just short of my jaw. “I’m promising.”
The space between us disappears. He doesn’t rush.
His hand finds my jaw, his thumb grazing the corner of my mouth, a slow test of boundaries that makes my breath falter.
Heat spreads through me, starting where his skin meets mine and spiraling outward until my fingers tremble against my sides.
I should stop this. I should step back. Instead, I lean in, the air between us charged and humming.
Jeremy’s mouth claims mine, like he’s known all along this would happen.
The first brush is soft, almost polite, a whisper of skin and breath that leaves me hungry for more.
When he deepens it, the taste of sweet coffee, heat, and something purely male floods my senses.
My pulse stumbles, then finds a faster rhythm that matches his.
His other hand slips to the back of my neck, holding me still while exploring as if he’s mapping every curve and corner for later.
Each brush feels deliberate, a quiet study in control, like he knows exactly how long to make me wait before deepening the kiss.
For a moment the world forgets itself. The hum of the factory fades.
He kisses like a man who understands leverage, applying just enough pressure to make surrender feel like choice.
My knees go weak. I catch the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, feeling the solid muscle beneath.
The world narrows to touch and breath. The faint scrape of his stubble along my cheek. The low sound he makes when I respond, a rumble that lands somewhere low in my stomach and twists tight. I part my lips, and his tongue teases the edge of mine. The slow stroke draws a shiver from me.
When he finally pulls back, the air between us turns thin and hot. My lips tingle, still damp from the drag of his mouth. He keeps his hand at my jaw, thumb tracing the curve of my lower lip as if he’s memorizing what he just claimed.
His eyes catch mine and hold. They pull me in the way deep water does, calm on the surface but full of hidden currents. I can’t tell if he’s daring me to move or waiting for me to sink.
“Tomorrow.” The word lands between us like a promise wrapped in a threat. My pulse trips on it, half hope, half warning.
He steps back, leaving space where his body used to be. The scent of clean skin and heat and something dark enough to keep me awake long after he’s gone lingers.