Chapter 22
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Emma
“Good evening,” a young man said as he stepped into the glow of the fairy lights. He carried two silver-covered plates, steam already curling from the edges.
“Thank you, Maverick,” Damien said as the man placed one dish before me.
“My pleasure,” he replied, offering a quick nod before retreating into the night.
Damien rose from where he was kneeling at my feet, candlelight sliding over the strong lines of his face. With deliberate grace, he took hold of the handle and lifted the cover with a mock flourish. “My lady.”
Sweet spice rolled across the terrace as steam curled into the deepening night, carrying the scent of orange glaze, ginger, and roasted garlic. The scent wrapped around us, heady and rich.
“God, this looks incredible.” The words left me before I could stop them, admiring the spread before me—glossy chicken, delicate dumplings, a scatter of herbs like confetti.
“I’ll pass your compliments to the chef.” He uncovered his own plate with equal ceremony. “They’ve been at it for hours.”
My brows lifted, teasing. “Hours, huh?” I hummed, spearing a bite of chicken. A smirk curved my lips. “So tell me,” I said, leaning forward, the candlelight catching on the rim of my glass. “What was the plan if I didn’t come?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I was going to cry in a bathtub of orange chicken and whiskey.” He shrugged. “Pathetic, sure—but at least it would’ve been a delicious kind of misery.”
A small laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it. “That does sound depressing.”
“Well,” he said around a bite of dumpling, “it’s not like I didn’t dig the grave myself.”
I arched a brow, slicing through my own dumpling. The delectable broth bled into the glaze of the chicken, tangling together like a Chinese-spiced murder scene—in the best possible way.
“That is very true,” I said. Then, quieter: “I’m still not ready to forgive you.”
“I don’t expect you to.” His tone dropped. “Not yet.”
For a moment, the world stilled. The candlelight flickered across his face—remorse and affection woven together in the same moment. Lips still red from the kiss we’d shared.
Then he cleared his throat, mischief slipping back in. “But—” He leaned forward, eyes glinting. “That doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying to bribe you with dumplings.”
I choked on a laugh, reaching for my wine. “What makes you think I won’t up the stakes next time?”
“You’re welcome to.” He settled back in his chair, one brow lifting. “Italian. Thai. Brazilian. Anything your heart desires.”
“How about another rewatch of Twilight?” The words burst out before I could stop them, half laugh, half challenge.
He groaned dramatically. “I’d do it for you… again.” Then his attention caught mine, teasing but sincere. “But seriously—how the hell did that become your favorite movie?”
“It isn’t,” I laughed, waving him off. “It’s just this stupid little ritual Candace and I have when life gets too hard.”
He froze mid-bite, eyebrows knitting. “Wait. You willingly rewatch Twilight—and it’s not even your favorite movie?”
I shook my head, giggling now.
He leaned back, eyes wide in mock horror. “You’re some kind of masochist.”
That did it. Laughter tore free, unstoppable, my shoulders shaking as I tried—and failed—to hide my face behind my hands.
His laugh carried across the terrace on the breeze—deep, rough-edged, and rich with disbelief. The kind of sound that made my chest ache in the best way.
We stayed like that for a while, trading jabs and half-serious smiles. Little reminders of what we’d been before everything became so painfully complicated.
By the time our plates were cleared, the air between us had softened. Not fixed. Just… easier.
“Okay,” I said, swirling the last of my wine. “This was a pretty decent apology dinner.”
His grin broke wide. “Good. I was ready to roll out a third course if I had to. Maybe even a backup daffodil.”
A laugh slipped out of me as he reached to refill my glass. “You really came into this with a full contingency plan.”
His face lit with boyish mischief. “You’re Emma Sinclair. I’d be an idiot not to plan for every angle.”
“You do realize you’re setting a dangerous precedent.” I gestured between the wine and the skyline. “The bar is now sky-high.”
“I’m okay with that.” He shrugged. “I’ve always liked a challenge.”
I smiled, but the ease didn’t quite settle before another thought broke through—sharp and unwelcome.
“Okay,” I began, careful. “We need to decide how we’re going to handle Wednesday.”
“We keep everything separate,” he said immediately, composure sliding back into place. “Clear lines, clear boundaries. Business stays business.” He gestured between us, expression sharp now. “And this stays here.”
“And after Wednesday?” I pressed, unwilling to let him off that easily.
He sighed, the strategist emerging again. “We keep it private until the merger is finalized.”
He must have seen the flash of something in my expression because his tone eased.
“Not because I’m embarrassed of you,” he added gently. “But because Candace was right, we need to get through this first. Once you’re firmly under—”
“Beside,” I corrected.
A smile ghosted across his lips as he dipped his head. “Beside Falkirk officially,” he amended. “Then we can make this public.”
I nodded gradually, rolling the words around in my mind. “And if your company pushes back once they find out?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Then I dissolve Falkirk, and we build something new.”
I blinked, my heart tripping at the certainty in his tone. “Be serious, Damien.”
“I am,” he said simply. “If they have a problem with us after everything we’ve built—after everything has been signed—they can kick rocks.”
I studied him—the stubborn tilt of his jaw, the conviction in his voice—ready to press him further when his face suddenly brightened at something behind me.
Ava appeared then—the woman who’d met me in the lobby—balancing two heaping slices of cake like she carried small, decadent flags of truce. Candlelight caught the dark ganache and made it gleam as if it were polished on purpose.
“Chocolate cake with dark chocolate ganache,” she announced, setting a plate before each of us. “A world-famous, secret family recipe.”
I raised a brow. “World-famous, huh?”
“She’s not wrong.” He shrugged, eyes glued to the dessert in front of him. “Ava made this for my birthday five years ago. I’ve been thinking about it since.”
Ava shot him a look—part flattered, part conspiratorial. “You’re only saying that because you ate half the cake yourself.”
“I regret nothing,” he returned with mock solemnity.
Ava gave me a wink. “He asked for something sweet for his sweet.” Teasing dripped from every word.
Damien’s head snapped to her, mortified. “That is not what I said.”
“Well, that’s what I heard.” She shrugged, amusement in every line of her face.
Laughter caught me before I could stop it—bright and surprised. Damien’s horrified, flapping mouth only made me laugh harder. Ava reached over and squeezed my arm, and the contact was unexpectedly comforting, easy as someone tucking a blanket around you in winter.
“I hope you like it,” she said, and drifted back inside like a receding tide.
“She’s been with me seven years,” he explained, still gathering his composure.
“I hired her as an assistant—back when she actually assisted. Now she does whatever she pleases and still expects direct deposit.” A sigh.
“And I can’t fire her, because my mother would never forgive me.
They became fast friends. Apparently it gives her the confidence to embarrass me. ”
He shot the last words over his shoulder.
A wicked grin was her only response.
“It’s endearing,” I found myself saying, still smiling. “It reminds me of my chef, Susan—she keeps me humble, too.”
His relief was almost visible: a loosening around his mouth, shoulders dropping an inch. “Good.” A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Saves me the trouble of firing her.”
I laughed, letting the sound settle between us. A small balm against the remaining aches.
We ate in silence for a while. The sharp edges of the night blurred beneath sugar and wine. He leaned over his plate, brow furrowed in comical concentration as he chased the last streak of ganache like it mattered.
When the final bites were gone and only the spun-sugar garnish remained like fragile glass crowns on our plates, he set his fork aside and reached for his napkin. A small, tired sigh escaped him.
“It’s getting late.” His voice dropped, threaded with something that sounded like disappointment.
It was. The city had quieted; the rush and hum of traffic had fallen away until the terrace felt suspended above it all. Skyscrapers once glittering with light now stood dark and still against the skyline.
“Unfortunately,” I said, pulling my phone from my purse. “I’ll message my driver.”
He nodded once, as I hit send on the message, but neither of us moved. The space between us thrummed—alive and thick with everything unspoken.
His gaze fell to my lips.
A slow, electric heat unfurled beneath my skin, winding low in my belly, pulsing in places I didn’t want to acknowledge. The silence grew tighter, pulled closer, until I could hear my own pulse over the sleeping hum of the city.
Then he rose to stand beside me, hand extended, firm and sure, waiting to draw me to my feet.
I slipped my fingers into his. The contact was nothing more than skin on skin, but it burned. A sharp current slid up my arm, warmth coiling beneath my ribs until air caught in my throat. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
His eyes swept over me. “You really are breathtaking. I’m a lucky man to have shared dinner with you.”
My lips parted, but no words came. I couldn’t have spoken if I’d tried.
Then he stepped closer. His arm wound around my waist, firm and unrelenting, drawing me against the solid wall of him. The contact stole my balance, my breath—everything.
“Thank you for tonight.” His voice shook. “For everything.”
My palm found his chest—alive beneath my touch—the thrum of his heartbeat vibrated against my skin. “No… thank—”
The rest vanished as his mouth captured mine.
The world fell away. My gasp broke against his lips, and he took it, deepening the kiss until thought itself fractured. His hand slid up, fingers threading through my hair, guiding me closer, holding me there.
I melted into him. My body moved before my mind could catch up, heat spilling through me like wildfire, gathering low and insistent.
The taste of him—wine, warmth, want—set every nerve alight.
I reached for him blindly, fisting my hands in his shirt, desperate for more.
Beneath the fabric he was all strength and heat and rough skin, the kind of solid that felt like safety and danger at once.
His grip tightened gently in my hair as his other hand mapped the line of my body, tender and hungry in equal measure. The air between us burned.
Then—suddenly—he broke the kiss, chest heaving. “God,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to look at me. “Sorry.” His chest heaved, his pupils blown wide. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“It’s…” My voice was barely sound. “It’s okay.”
I didn’t move away. Couldn’t. He surrounded me, his pulse still drumming beneath my palm. The faint scent of cedar and smoke clung to his skin, and the nearness of him pulled at something deep inside me—something that felt dangerously like surrender.
He froze when I pressed my ear to his chest, the thunder of his heartbeat pounding beneath my cheek.
It raced wild and uneven—proof I wasn’t the only one undone by what had just happened between us.
His arms tightened around me instinctively, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other splayed wide across my lower back as though to anchor me there.
We stayed like that for what felt like forever—two people suspended in a world that had shrunk to the rise and fall of his chest, to the steady rhythm of us finding sync. The city murmured somewhere far below, distant and irrelevant, as if the whole skyline were holding its breath with us.
Eventually, I forced myself to pull back just enough to look up at him. His eyes were dark and raw, searching my face like he was trying to memorize every line, every breath, every unspoken thing between us.
“I should be getting home,” I whispered, though every part of me wanted to stay exactly where I was.
His shoulders dropped, and a small, rueful smile flickered across his mouth. “Probably.” He reached into his pocket, checking the time. “Your driver should be here soon.”
“Probably.” My voice was small and tinged with disappointment.
The walk through his penthouse felt like a dream—each step heavier than the last, each one carrying us closer to goodbye. When we reached the elevator, he pressed the call button.
“Text me when you get home, okay?”
I nodded, my throat too thick to answer. “I will.”
He leaned down, pressing a slow, reverent kiss to the top of my head. His lips lingered there, the warmth of him seeping through my skin, something catching in him like it cost him something to let go.
When he finally did, his hands trailed down my arms until only our fingertips touched—the last, trembling connection before the inevitable parting.
The elevator doors opened with a quiet chime that sounded far too final. I stepped inside and turned to face him, memorizing everything—the candlelight haloing his face, the heartbreak in his eyes, the promise neither of us dared to speak aloud.
We didn’t look away. Not until the doors began to close, slicing the space between us, sealing him away with a metallic sigh.
As the elevator began its descent, I pressed my fingers to my lips. His taste still lingered there—chocolate, wine, and something dangerously close to hope.