But then she walked in, eyes blazing, tearing into me like no one else ever has, and it all unravelled.
I’d spent years trying to bury her and one kiss was all it took to prove that I never really had. I pace toward the window, my pulse still thrumming like I just stepped out of a fight. Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it?
A fight and I kissed her in the middle of it.
No finesse, no calculated moves, just a pure, reckless need.
Fucking idiot.
I rake a hand through my hair, jaw tight. I should’ve handled it differently. The low ball offer was a mistake—I see that now. I’d justified it to myself, convinced it was the only way to get her in a room alone. Because if I’d gone in too high, she’d have been suspicious. She’d have known I was playing a different game.
But instead of reeling her in, I pushed her away. Hard and now she hates me even more than she already did.
I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. I should let it go. Walk away, cut my losses.
But I don’t want to let it go.
She kissed me back.
For a second—just a second, she melted into me, her fingers gripping my shirt like she needed me just as badly as I needed her.
I close my eyes, replaying it. The way she tasted. The way she gasped into my mouth. The way her breath hitched just beforeshe shoved me away.
I know that sound.
It wasn’t just anger. It was fear.
Not of me.
Of herself.
That changes everything. Lila might hate me right now. But hate is just love wearing sharper teeth.
I can work with that. I have to.
11
Lila
The charity gala. Sophie’s dad. My mum. Our shop. These are the things I should be thinking about.
Not Ben. Not his hands. Not his mouth. Not the fact that even now, I can still feel him on me, days later.
I shake the thought loose, exhaling hard as I move through the grand ballroom of the Kingsley Hotel, the scent of fresh roses, eucalyptus, and candle wax wrapping around me.
The charity fundraiser is in full swing—guests in sleek evening wear sipping champagne, laughter and polite conversation humming beneath the soft melody of the string quartet. The event is perfect. Every table adorned with carefully arranged bouquets, every flower placed with intention, with meaning.
My work.
I should be proud. I should be soaking it in, the elegance, the success, the way Sophie’s father lights up when guests approach him, shaking his hand, telling him how important this cause is.
Instead, I’m hiding in plain sight.
Keeping myself busy, flitting from table to table, adjusting stems that don’t need adjusting, making sure the hydrangeas aren’t drinking up too much water.
Because if I stop—if I stand still for even a second, I might actually have to deal with the fact that I kissed Ben Ashcroft.
That I let myself want him.
