EIGHT #2
The male character in the story had leaned in to kiss the female, and there it was – his perfectly symmetrical, chiselled features, his intensity, his lips curving into that soft, dangerous smile.
Shit.
I deleted the paragraph in a flurry of keystrokes, my pulse racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the fucking scene. This wasn’t the first time he’d slipped into my writing. Only this time, it felt different. More personal.
Because I was attracted to him. Of course I was – I had fucking eyes.
But he was my boss.
And he wasn’t Ghost.
So I folded the longing into a deep corner of myself, buried it beneath duty. And I moved on.
I rewrote the scene. At ninety-six words per minute, I produced enough text to make it seem like I’d been immersed in this for an hour. That should have been enough to satisfy him, make him think I’d done overtime because I was invested enough.
D’Angelo had been too quiet earlier today.
Seated at his own desk, his brow furrowed in concentration, his long fingers had tapped gracefully against the keys.
His focus had been magnetic, every pause filled with the kind of intelligence that made watching him work like watching a master sculptor bring marble to life.
He was hypnotic – the brand of danger that made you forget to look away until your heart bled out.
I drank my wine, trying to ignore the knot in my chest. It wasn’t the story that gripped me. It was him. Everything about him that had me wanting to scrape a little at that perfect surface of his.
As the wine bit my tongue, my body slowed the motions, and I stared at my own reflection in the windowpane.
How fucked up was I – taking Ghost and immediately switching to my boss?
‘Shit…’ I shook my head and topped off my glass.
I should start seeing a therapist again.
I turned back to my screen, determined to focus on the story. But even as my fingers continued their rhythm over the keyboard, I could feel him there, lingering in the corner of my mind, a shadow I couldn’t escape.
Soon after, sleep claimed me. Right there on the couch.
Ghost had drained my mind, body and soul, leaving me in a haze of exhaustion that even therapy had never managed to induce.
His touch lingered in my thoughts, a soothing balm over the searing wounds of my past. It wasn’t often I fell asleep without medication, but the night’s surrender to the void was proof that Ghost’s presence in my life was already working miracles I couldn’t explain.
Morning arrived far too quickly. I cracked open my eyes, only to wince at the reality staring back at me from the glass door of the wine cabinet. My heavy makeup had smeared during the night, so now I looked like a glamorous raccoon – if I squinted and lied to myself.
Groaning, I stumbled into the bathroom, scrubbing away the remnants of last night as the day already began to settle on my shoulders. The fucking contacts seemed to have gotten stuck to my eyeballs, and I was barely done peeling them off when a sharp ping of my phone pulled me back to reality.
I grabbed it, glancing at the screen.
Cain: Is it crowded in Giuliano’s this morning?
I frowned, rereading the text, my foggy morning brain struggling to process his cryptic message. And then it hit me – I have a day job!
My eyes darted to the clock.
Shit!
Adrenaline spiked through me. I was late. Not just a little late – late! My second day on the job, and I hadn’t even set the fucking alarm!
There would be no coffee for D’Angelo this morning, no seamless facade of competence. I was about to walk into work a hot mess.
My heart sank at the thought of his disapproving gaze, those piercing eyes that could flay me with a single frown.
Frantically, I scrubbed my face and threw on yesterday’s clothes, crumpled and discarded on the armchair, and grabbed my bag.
I fired off a quick message to my new boss saying I was on my way.
My hair was still damp from my rushed attempt to tame it, but there was no time to care.
I didn’t even pause to check the mirror one last time.
The door slammed shut behind me as I bolted into the street, the echo of Ghost’s lingering touch and D’Angelo’s looming expectations drowning out the morning ruckus of the street. I wasn’t ready for today – but ready or not, the day wasn’t going to wait for my brain to catch up.
I all but crashed through the door of the office, breathless and frenzied, my heart hammering in my chest as if trying to escape my ribs.
The cool air brushed against my overheated skin.
I made an effort to temper my emotions, clutching the strap of my bag as though it could tether me back to reality.
He was there, sitting alone at his desk.
The moment his eyes met mine, my breath skipped. Eight parts Greek god, two parts annoyance – he wore that broody expression like it was tailored to incinerate my common sense.
Why does he always look so fucking perfect?
I was suddenly too aware of my devil-may-care morning look.
D’Angelo reclined in his oversized chair, legs spread with an infuriating casualness as he watched me over the bridge of his perfectly straight nose.
A faint smile played at the corners of his lips, but his brown eyes held very little amusement.
‘Good morning, DeLuca,’ he greeted, his baritone low, rougher than I remembered as if he’d woken up just now. It curled through the room and slid down my neck.
My stomach clenched. Was it exhaustion or irritation that added that growl to his tone? Either way, it was tugging at my darker thoughts.
‘Good morning,’ I managed, clinging to the last threads of my composure as I was still trying to catch my breath from running. My words came out steadier than I felt, but the tension in my chest made every breath seem shallow.
His pristine white shirt was so crisp it was almost dazzling in the halo of the morning, not a single wrinkle marring it.
It stretched perfectly across his broad shoulders, hinting at the lean power beneath.
The faded jeans he wore clung to his thighs, reminding me all too vividly of the day at the gym when he’d offered me the job.
I choked back a breath, shoving that image from my mind, and hurried to my temporary desk, determined not to let him see me unravel completely.
Am I fucking ovulating or something?
‘Where’s the coffee?’ His question was smooth but sharp, each word cutting through the silence.
What? My forehead furrowed as my decaffeinated mind laboured to make sense of things.
Absently, I set my laptop on the desk and turned it on, avoiding his gaze.
‘Sorry. The line was too long. I gave up in the end,’ I lied, my voice too casual to be convincing.
He didn’t reply, and the quiet stretched like a taut wire between us. His stare pressed down on me until I couldn’t help it – I glanced sideways.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
His eyes locked on mine, unwavering. My pulse skipped, and my mouth went dry under the force of his attention.
Shit, I hadn’t even combed my hair right. I must look like a homeless person.
‘Yes, just stayed up too long.’
‘I saw,’ he said, reclining against the backrest. ‘Good work on the chapter.’
I blinked, startled almost, and a genuine smile curved my lips. ‘Thanks. You didn’t think it was too light?’
His demeanour shifted, a single perfect brow arching. His lips curled into a smirk then, though a calculated one. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, drawing closer until his sculpted arms bunched beneath the damn fabric.
‘Too light?’ His dark, velvety murmur curled around me like a binding rope.
‘Do I think the scene where Damian makes Chloe crawl across the cold marble with her knees bruising while he watches with the leash in his hand… is too light?’ His voice dipped.
‘No.’ He reclined again. ‘It’s perfect. She breaks just enough to want more. That’s what the readers want.’
My tongue felt heavy, throat burning, mind racing to find a response that wouldn’t betray the way his words were pulling me under. I was a grown woman and a romance author myself. I’d written spicier stuff, but those words paired up with his voice just…
As he lingered like that, his gaze holding mine a second too long, I could almost see the next question forming on his lips. His eyes glinted with curiosity, daring me to admit the truth: did the scene come from my twisted imagination – or from experience?
The air changed, and my breath caught as his lips parted slightly, as if he might actually risk the ask. But then, mercifully, he pulled away, his expression hardening as he turned back to the screen.
He cleared his throat sharply, breaking the charged silence.
‘I’ll sort out the rest,’ he said, his tone brisk, though the rasp in his voice belied the unease. ‘Can you take a look at that other folder for me? I was working on it last night. It’s another book I’ve just started.’
His words came at me as if from a distance. The rush of blood to my ears drowned out any rational thought. The heat of the moment hadn’t faded and didn’t seem like it was going to.
I inclined my head, my fingers brushing against the keyboard as I forced myself to focus. ‘Sure,’ I said, my voice softer than intended.
I navigated to the workspace folders, the glow of the screen a welcome distraction.
Inconspicuously, I stole a glance at him. The monitor held his full attention, his jaw tight, his posture rigid.
Gentlemanly restraint – or sheer force of will? I couldn’t tell. Either way, Cain D’Angelo was a surprise through and through. And I was grateful. This was his sanctuary, his workplace, and I’d seen how much reverence he held for it. Vinnie, his business partner, as well.
That reverence extended to this moment, to this space.
But the tension remained, crackling like a live wire, ready to ignite with the smallest spark.
Or maybe it was all just in my head.