Chapter 1 #2
Ten minutes into our conversation, he’d relaxed a little, alternating spoonfuls of his yogurt with sips of fresh coffee, black, no sugar.
I was all easy grins and featherlight words, the sunlit Chicago skyline a reminder that this was a safe pocket away from home where he could flirt without any consequences.
Only a handful of other guests lingered, speaking in hushed voices as if anything else might scuff the marble floor, busy with their own affairs.
Pun unintended.
“Nice shoulders,” I elaborated. “You sit with your back straight but not stiff like you swallowed a ruler. Let’s put you in a charcoal coat, and I bet it’s a showstopper.”
He quirked one eyebrow, just slightly, a barely perceptible flush to his cheeks. “Do you always talk like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re on some kind of timer.” His tone carried genuine curiosity, no insult. It still twisted strangely through me. Too close to the bone.
“I’m British,” I said lightly. “I was born with a sense of urgency and a mild superiority complex about my English accent.”
His mouth curved upward. “You’re about as British as I am, which is to say not at all.”
“Devastating.” I fanned myself and leaned in just a hint more, catching a brief glimpse of Tomas’s frown. Not enough. Thanks, I was aware. But I was neither new nor stupid enough to rush this. “I’ve built my entire persona on being mysterious and vaguely continental.”
He sipped his coffee as if to mask that he was having fun. “Sorry, Stellan. Afraid it isn’t working.”
“Mean.” Under the table, my foot bumped his, the contact there and gone. He blinked, swallowed, focused dark eyes on me—and, oh. Okay. The back of my neck went hot. I slapped down the sting of arousal as if it were a mosquito.
A second of silence, charged, as I let my gaze drop briefly to his hands. Big, strong, steady. He exhaled through his nose, and I dragged my attention back to his face.
Keep it moving.
“I bet…” I started, and his eyebrows lifted.
“This should be good.”
“I bet you’re the kind of man who packs his suitcase into neat little compartments.
” I softened my expression, leaning subtly closer, voice a little lower.
“It’s very admirable. Discipline and all.
” I nodded at his plate like it was evidence.
“Like you believe that life will reward restraint with… I don’t know. Clear skin. Inner peace.”
Something warm moved across his face. He glanced toward the room again, just for a moment, then back at me. “I do roll my clothes,” he said. “Saves space. Keeps things predictable when you’re traveling a lot.”
Predictable. It snagged in my mind.
“That’s sexy,” I said.
He snorted. “Predictable is sexy?”
“It is if you’ve grown up the wrong way.” The line slipped out before I could sand it down, and his eyes sharpened slightly—not judgmental but attentive, like he’d caught the truth under my light tone.
Fuck. I didn’t do this.
“So,” I said quickly, wrestling the moment back into safer territory, my throat a little too tight. “Tell me about your packing habits. Do you label the compartments? Like… socks, dignity, things I want but maybe shouldn’t?”
His laugh this time was quiet, eyes smiling, a faint flush along the tops of his cheeks. The space between us tightened.
For a beat, I didn’t move. He didn’t either. Then I let the side of my shoe brush his again, clear intent behind it this time. I realized just as he froze that maybe I’d overplayed my hand, rushing in to distract myself from the odd, misshapen weight in my chest.
His head dipped, cap shadowing his eyes. But his foot stayed against mine.
Yes.
I leaned in, just a little, the rest of the room fading to the back of my mind.
His mouth went soft, unsure, and my pulse stuttered over itself, then steadied.
Standard. This was standard—a normal job, chemistry check.
So what if there was something about him that pulled me in?
So what if he was hot? A lot of people were, and chances were that this guy’s partner was writing my check. Figuratively.
One of his hands had gone slightly tight around his fork.
“Sorry,” I said softly, quieter than I’d intended. “Tell me if I’m coming on too strong.”
His gaze stayed on me, eyes a little too wide. Scared? Didn’t make sense. Then he shook his head once, small. “You’re not.” The words were precise, but his voice caught slightly around them, breath hitching.
All right. Willing, then. I reached out and brushed a finger over his knuckles, just a fleeting second while he watched me, and no.
Still not quite the money shot. In real life, sure—charged and obvious.
In a picture? Easy enough to explain away.
Friendly, hey, maybe a little flirty. But not worth what someone would have paid for this moment.
I needed one clear frame.
“Hold that thought,” I said, glancing at our cups. “I’ll get a refill. Same for you? You look like all that broad-shouldered self-control is fifty percent fueled by caffeine.”
That got a real smile out of him. “Do I?”
“Do you deny it?” I pushed my chair back and stood, cup in one hand, then turned too fast. I clipped the chair leg with my foot.
And stumbled.
It wasn’t dramatic. Just a messy everyday loss of balance that sent me sideways with a muttered “Shit” as I lurched toward him.
He caught me before I tripped straight into his lap—quick, sure, halfway out of his chair with one hand at my side and the other higher up, fingers closing around my upper arm while I grabbed for purchase and ended up with my hand against the side of his neck.
Warm skin. The scrape of stubble near his jaw.
My whole world shrunk to this, him. To being held, somehow. A jolt ran along my spine.
For a beat, neither of us moved.
Jesus, close. My knee brushed his thigh. His cap had tipped back just enough that I could see his eyes up close, dark and startled and fixed on me. And—oh. There it was again. A strange drop in my chest that wasn’t triumph, wasn’t the neat little click of a job gone right. Just…
Something real. Something that made the whole setup feel suddenly filthy even as a cold part of my brain went, There, that’s your picture.
Yeah.
“Huh.” My voice dipped too soft, pulse skittering high. “I usually delay the horizontal part until there’s mutual consent.”
He let out the faintest breath through his nose, almost a laugh, except his hands were still on me. “Good to know.”
I needed to step back, reclaim my sense of casual. Remind myself this was a job, that most likely, this guy had someone waiting at home. Except he… just… something about it felt off. He was cautious, yes. But it didn’t land like guilt.
Slowly, I straightened. His hands fell away.
And then—