Chapter 25
Evelyn
Monday Morning
Monday Morning. I almost forget who he is when we’re alone.
When he’s barefoot in my kitchen. When he kisses me slowly while the pasta boils.
When he sleeps—with his face softened, his guard down, his hand curled around my waist like I’m the only safe thing he’s ever touched.
But the moment I step into the building, it hits me like a cold slap.
He’s Mr. Hunt again. CEO. Storm in a suit. The man whom entire departments avoid making eye contact with. Ice-eyed. Controlled. Untouchable. And yet…As I pass his glass office, his eyes flick toward me. Just once.
A single, razor-sharp glance. Except I know that look now. I know what it means when his jaw tightens, and his fingers pause over the keyboard. He’s thinking about me.
I force myself to keep walking—five steps, ten, fifteen—until I turn the corner and slip into the copy room.
I don’t wait long. The door closes behind me with a soft click, and suddenly his hands are on my waist, his body pressing me back into the counter, and his mouth is on mine—fast, hungry, reckless in a way Alexander Hunt never is in public.
He kisses me like he needs it just to survive the day.
We break apart only because oxygen is necessary.
“This is so unprofessional,” I whisper, breath shaky.
He leans down, lips brushing the shell of my ear, voice dropping into the kind of darkness that makes my knees weak.
“Then fire me.”
A laugh bubbles up, half-choked by the moan I’m trying to swallow.
His hand slides up the back of my neck, thumb stroking the base of my skull with a tenderness that feels like possession.
“You drive me fucking insane,” he mutters, forehead resting against mine.
“I think about your voice in the middle of board meetings.”
Heat shoots through me. “You licked syrup off my fingers on Saturday,” I whisper, smug.
He groans—a deep, sinful sound—and closes his eyes like the memory physically hurts him. “You’re evil.”
I kiss him again. Quick. Soft. A promise. A threat. A problem. And just like that, we pull apart.
He leaves first.
I wait sixty seconds. We walk out at separate times, separate doors, separate worlds. Professional. Composed. Untouchable. But inside?
We’re nothing but lovesick teenagers with secrets, stealing seconds in copy rooms, trying and failing not to fall in love with the danger of it all.