Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
Damien
The car pulled away from the curb, and I looked to her.
She was beaming. Steady as a fixed star. The summer light caught her hair, turning the near black strands copper at the edges.
For the first time during work hours, we were in the car. Together.
Not officially.
Not yet.
But Jennifer knew.
She was on our side.
Three weeks.
After months of distance—
of pretending she was nothing more than another somebody,
of walking past her in hallways without touching.
Three weeks felt like nothing.
"You're staring," Emma said. She was smiling. That soft, private curve she only wore when we were alone.
"I'm admiring."
"You already used that line this morning."
"It bears repeating."
She laughed—light and easy, the tension of the past hours finally slipping from her shoulders. I watched her body soften into the leather seat, watched her fingers thread through mine on the seat between us.
"We did it," she said, low. "We actually did it."
I grinned at her, but she was already elsewhere—watching the city smear past the glass.
Her hand stayed in mine, and I let myself have it.
Harold pulled up under the covered entrance of Falkirk, shifting into park.
"We should go in," Emma said.
"We should."
But neither of us moved.
"Jennifer said lingering looks and coffee runs," I reminded her. "Nothing about sitting in parked cars like teenagers."
She pivoted to face me. "Are you calling me a teenager?"
"I'm calling myself one." I lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. "Apparently I've regressed."
Her cheeks flushed. God, I loved that—the way color rose across her skin when I caught her off guard.
She shook her head, warmth dancing in her features. "Damien."
"Emma."
"We really should go in."
"One more minute."
She laughed, but didn't pull away. "You're impossible."
"You love it."
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Love.
There it was again.
"Come on." She squeezed my hand once, then let go. "Back to reality."
We stepped out into the bustle of the lobby. Falkirk's polished stone and chrome and quiet power hummed around us as if nothing in my life had just shifted on its axis.
We walked side by side toward the elevator, maintaining the careful distance we'd perfected over the past weeks—close enough to speak, far enough to look discreet.
It felt wrong now.
Like wearing a suit that no longer fit.
The elevator climbed. Fourth floor. Seventh. Tenth.
Emma's stop.
She moved toward the doors, then paused, glancing back at me.
"Lunch?" I asked before she could speak.
She blinked. "What?"
"Lunch. The café downstairs. I hear they have a passable chicken Caesar."
"You want to buy me lunch? Here? In the building?"
"Jennifer said to stop hiding." I leaned back against the elevator wall, hands in my pockets. "Consider it step one."
Emma stared at me, a slow grin spreading across her face.
"Are you asking me on a date, Mr. Holt?"
"I'm asking you to eat a salad with me in a corporate cafeteria, Ms. Sinclair." I grinned. The elevator doors started to close, I stretched out a hand. "But if you want to call it a date, I won't argue."
"Twelve-thirty?"
"Twelve-thirty."
She stepped off the elevator, heading toward her end of the hall. She glanced back over her shoulder.
"It's a date."
Three words. Ordinary.
For us, a victory.
I followed a moment later—careful to maintain our distance.
As I walked, the day had begun to catalogue—meetings, contracts, calls—when a voice stopped me cold.
"Damien."
Nathan Bell stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall. Arms crossed. Face suspiciously pleasant.
"Nathan." I didn't slow my pace. "If this is about the Harrington contracts, I'm meeting with legal at two."
"It's not about Harrington." He pushed off the wall and fell into step beside me. "I was hoping for a moment alone. If you have one to spare."
I didn't.
But Jennifer's voice echoed in my head: no confrontations, no threats, let him dig, let him chase shadows.
"Of course," I said smoothly, gesturing toward my office. "After you."
Nathan's mouth curved—that thin, reptilian lift that never reached his eyes.
The office door closed behind us with a soft click.
"Drink?" I moved toward the liquor cart, more for something to do with my hands than any real desire for whiskey at one in the afternoon.
"No, thank you." Nathan settled into one of the chairs across from my desk, crossing one leg over the other. Relaxed. Comfortable.
Too comfortable.
"I wanted to congratulate you," he said.
"On?"
"Emma Sinclair. She completed her mentorship this morning. Weeks of sessions. Not a single complaint filed. Quite impressive."
My vision narrowed on his hands, resting on his stomach.
The touches she'd described in clipped, minimized sentences.
Just my shoulder.
Nothing crazy.
The way she'd gone still when I asked if he'd done it again.
Nathan hadn't been careless.
He wasn't testing her boundaries.
He'd been deliberate.
"She's a professional," I said evenly. "I'd expect nothing less from a board member."
"Mm." His fingers drummed once against the armrest. "Most people crack under that kind of pressure. The long hours. The scrutiny."
He paused.
"The isolation."
I kept my expression neutral, my posture controlled. He'd come in here hoping for something. A tell. A fissure. A reaction.
"But not Emma," he continued. "She endured."
I clenched my fists inside my pockets.
"Was there a point you wanted to discuss?" I asked, voice calm. Flat. "I have a full afternoon."
"Just an observation." Nathan rose from the chair, smoothing down his jacket. "You two seem to have developed quite a rapport. I've noticed you in meetings together. The way you look at each other. It's sweet. Almost like there's something more there."
"Emma is a valued colleague," I said.
"Of course." Nathan moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the frame. "Though I have to say—it's interesting timing. The merger. Her sudden appointment to the board." His gaze flicked to mine. "The way those audit discrepancies just… disappeared."
There it was. The escalation.
"It's almost like someone was looking out for her."
The silence stretched between us.
I didn't move. Didn't flinch.
Nathan's grin widened anyway.
"Enjoy your afternoon, Damien," he said softly. "I'm sure you have a lot on your plate."
The door clicked shut behind him.
I stood still for a long moment, staring at nothing.
Let him dig. Let him chase shadows.
But Nathan wasn't chasing shadows.
He was circling the most vulnerable part of Emma's life—and smiling.
I made myself breathe.
In two hours, I'd sit across from her in a café,
two ordinary people
with ordinary salads,
and I refused to let Nathan Bell poison that.
At twelve twenty-eight, I walked down the hall to Emma's office. Knuckles rapping on the door.
"Come in," she called.
Emma stood behind her desk, shuffling papers into a folder. She'd changed since this morning—not in clothes or appearance, but in energy. Calmer. Like Jennifer's decision had taken a weight off her shoulders.
I leaned against the doorframe. "Ms. Sinclair."
She looked up, and for a split second her whole face lit.
Then she caught herself, smoothing it out.
"Mr. Holt." Her voice was careful. Public.
"Can I help you with something?" she added, just loud enough to carry if someone happened to be passing in the hall.
"Just passing through." I stepped back, giving her space to exit. "Heading anywhere interesting?"
"Lunch," she said, casual and clear.
"Same." I fell into step beside her.
"Do you mind if I join you?" I asked, biting the inside of my cheek to stop my smile. "I hear the cafe downstairs has a perfectly mediocre chicken Caesar."
Her lips twitched. "Of course not, Mr. Holt. You're more than welcome to join."
A man in a suit passed us going the other direction and nodded politely. "Mr. Holt. Ms. Sinclair."
"Good afternoon," I replied.
We reached the elevator and stepped inside.
The doors slid closed.
Emma exhaled quietly. "That felt weird."
"Good weird or bad weird?"
"I don't know yet." Her eyes glinted with mischief. "Ask me again after the mediocre salad."
The café occupied a corner of Falkirk's ground floor—exposed brick and reclaimed wood, the kind of curated casual that cost a fortune to build. At twelve thirty-five, it was busy but not packed. A few clusters of employees at scattered tables. A line at the register that moved efficiently.
Normal.
Unremarkable.
Exactly what Jennifer wanted.
She ordered first. "Chicken Caesar. Dressing on the side."
"And for you, sir?" the cashier asked.
"The same."
Emma's brows lifted, reaching into her purse pocket.
I pulled out my wallet. "I've got it."
"You don't have to—" she pretended.
"Company expense account," I said, keeping it casual. "Consider it a perk of surviving Nathan's mentorship."
Her smile faltered for half a second at his name.
The cashier handed me the receipt. "Your order will be ready in a few minutes."
We stepped aside to wait. Sunlight spilled across the floor, catching dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Outside, the city churned on—taxis and pedestrians and the heat shimmering off the pavement in hazy waves.
"This is nice," Emma said quietly.
I let my gaze linger one beat too long—just long enough to be seen, not long enough to be accused. "I agree."
"Mr. Holt! Ms. Sinclair!"
We both turned.
Tessa wove through the tables toward us, a sandwich wrapped in wax paper in one hand and a bottle of juice in the other.
"Tessa." I straightened. "How are you feeling?"
"Like a whale with ankles," she said cheerfully. "But everything's on track. I'm not complaining." Her gaze darted between Emma and me, bright with curiosity. "Are you two eating here?"
"We are," Emma said. "Just waiting on our order."
"Oh, perfect." Tessa's face lit up. "Do you mind if I join you?"
I glanced at Emma.
Emma glanced at me.
"Of course," we said in unison.
Tessa beamed. "I'll grab us a table—there's a good one by the window that just opened up."
She was gone before either of us could respond, claiming territory like she managed everything else in this building.
Emma bit her lip, fighting a grin. "Well. That happened."
"Jennifer told us to stop hiding. She didn't say anything about acquiring a chaperone."
"Consider it practice," Emma said, eyes sparkling. "For being normal."
Our order came up. I collected both salads and the waters.
Emma reached for hers. "I can carry—"
"I've got it."
She hesitated, then let her hand drop, the corners of her mouth kicking up in a lopsided smile.
We walked toward the table where Tessa sat unwrapping her sandwich with the focus of someone eating for two. Her attention tracked us as we approached—lingering on the two salads I'd carried, on the way Emma walked close without touching, on the way I set her plate down first.
One eyebrow lifted, but she didn't comment.
I slid into the chair beside Emma instead of across.
Tessa's gaze flicked between us again—quick, assessing—then she smiled and took a bite of her sandwich.
"So," she said, chewing, "how's the transition going, Ms. Sinclair? Settling into Falkirk okay?"
Emma smiled brightly. "Please, call me Emma. The whole Ms. Sinclair thing is reserved exclusively for Nathan."
Tessa snorted. "And how's that going?"
"He hasn't said it once," Emma replied, deadpan.
Tessa rolled her eyes. "Of course he hasn't. The man's a prick."
Delight bloomed across Emma's face before she could hide it. "Oh," she said, leaning in slightly, "so you're one of the good ones."
"I'm offended you would think anything less," Tessa said, laughing.
It should have been simple.
A lunch. A salad. A woman I loved beside me.
But Nathan's voice still scraped at the edges of my focus, the memory of his comfort in my office, his confidence, his hands on my woman.
Tessa kept talking—about Italy, about a missing agenda, about a client who'd demanded sparkling water flown in from Zurich—and Emma laughed along, normal and bright.
And I let myself sit there, beside her, seen.
Because normal was the point.
Visibility was the shield.
Three weeks.
I could wait three weeks.
But as Emma reached for her fork, her shoulder brushing mine for the briefest second—accidental, harmless, ordinary—I felt my patience turn razor thin anyway.
Three weeks suddenly felt much too long.