"I'll see you soon," he said, and though the words were innocuous, the promise in them was anything but.
After he left, lunch concluded quickly. Miles had another meeting, leaving me with promises to call later another attempt that felt like he was again trying to mark territory that wasn't his to claim.
I should have left then. Should have walked out of the restaurant, hailed a cab, gone back to my office, and buried myself in work until the memory of Lucas Turner faded to a manageable ache.
Instead, I found myself headed to the Ashcroft Gallery, pulse quickening with every step. I told myself I was going to end this properly, to make it clear that whatever had sparked between us needed to be extinguished before it consumed us both.
A lie I almost believed.
The Ashcroft Gallery was quieter than I remembered—dimly lit, with long shadows stretching across the polished floor. A curated hush wrapped around the exhibits like silk, muting the click of my heels as I walked.
The moment I stepped into the space, I regretted it. Not because I didn’t want to see him. Because I did—and that want was dangerous. It curled low in my belly, tightened my chest, made my skin feel too tight. Every step brought me closer to a man I should avoid at all costs.
I wandered past black-and-white photographs of the city skyline, half-heartedly pretending to admire them while my pulse thundered in my ears. I wasn’t here to appreciate art. I washere to confront the man who'd undone me with a single night and threatened to undo everything else with a single look.
"You came."
His voice came from behind me, low and unhurried.
I turned. He stood too close, framed by the ambient light, impossibly handsome in his tailored suit. Lucas Turner didn’t just enter a room. He dominated it.
"I shouldn't have," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
"But you did."
He took a step forward. Then another. I stood my ground, even as every nerve ending in my body lit up in warning and anticipation.
Lucas didn't speak at first. His eyes roamed over me, slow and thorough, as if reacquainting himself with something he already knew intimately.
"You're afraid," he said quietly, almost reverently.
"Of you. Of this. Of what it means," I admitted.
His hand lifted, fingertips brushing a stray strand of hair from my cheek. The touch burned like a brand. "Tell me to stop."
I couldn’t. Not when he looked at me like that. Not when the memory of his mouth on my skin still lingered like a ghost.
He stepped into my space, crowding me against the wall beside a stark cityscape photograph.
His arm comes up beside my head, not touching me, just framing me.
Caging me. Owning the moment.
"Little fox," he murmured, eyes dark with intent.
"Still so clever. Still pretending you're not exactly where you want to be."
My breath caught. The nearness of him was overwhelming—his heat, his scent, the intensity of his focus.
I felt dizzy, breathless, every inch of my skin prickling with awareness.
"Say it," he whispered.
And I couldn’t lie.
So I didn’t.
His hand moved, skimming the curve of my waist, sliding to my lower back. I swayed forward, unable to resist the magnetic pull between us.
