“A delicate, ladylike snuffle, then,” he amended, the teasing note in his voice so unfamiliar it made my chest tighten.“Coffee?”
“Yes.Please.”
He stood and moved to the counter with that same unnerving economy of motion, but it was softer now, less like a predator and more like a man in his own kitchen.He poured coffee into a second mug—my chipped mug Shay had given me as a joke—and handed it to me.
Our fingers brushed.A simple, electric contact.His thumb swept over my knuckle, a fleeting, deliberate caress, before he let go.
“Cream?Sugar?”he asked, as if he hadn’t just short-circuited my nervous system.
“Black’s fine.”
I took a sip, the heat searing and comforting.I watched as he returned to the table, but instead of sitting, he began to quietly tidy.He gathered the empty bottles, carrying them to the recycling bin.He picked up my torn shirt, folded it neatly despite the ruin, and set it on the arm of the couch.
It was the most surreal thing I’d ever witnessed.Henry Emerson, billionaire, cleaning my apartment.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, my throat tight.
He didn’t look at me.“I made the mess.I’ll deal with it.”
It wasn’t an apology.It was a statement of fact.And it meant more.
I wrapped my hands around the warm mug and finally asked the question burning in my throat.“Why did you stay?”
He stilled, a bottle in his hand.He set it down and turned, leaning back against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest.He regarded me for a long moment, his expression unreadable but not closed.
“I told you I wasn’t going anywhere,” he said simply.
“You could have left.After I fell asleep.You could have gone back to your...your penthouse.Your real life.”
“This,” he said, his gaze sweeping the small, sunlit kitchen, the messy living room, me standing there in his too-big shirt, “felt more real.”
The words landed softly, a quiet detonation in my heart.I didn’t know what to say.I took another sip of coffee to hide the tremor in my hands.
He pushed off the counter and walked over to me.He stopped close, but not crowding.He reached out, his fingers gentle as they brushed the hair from my forehead.
“You were dreaming,” he murmured, his touch lingering.“Talking in your sleep.Something about glitter and a prank.”
I huffed a laugh, my eyes stinging.“That sounds about right.”
His hand slid down to cup my jaw, his thumb stroking over my cheekbone.“I didn’t want you to wake up alone.Not after last night.”
The tenderness in his touch, in his words, was my undoing.I leaned into his hand, closing my eyes for a second.When I opened them, he was watching me with an expression I’d never seen before: open, unguarded, almost soft.
“Are you hungry?”he asked, his voice dropping to that intimate register that vibrated straight through me.
“Starving.”
He nodded.“Sit.I’ll make eggs.”
“You cook?”
“I survive,” he said, a wry twist to his mouth.“Sit, Charlie.”
I obeyed, sinking into a chair at the table.I watched, mesmerized, as he moved around my small kitchen with a surprising competence.He found a pan, cracked eggs into a bowl with one-handed ease, located a spatula I forgot I owned.
The domesticity of it was staggering.The most powerful man I’d ever known was making me breakfast in my shitty apartment, barefoot, wearing yesterday’s clothes.
“The model,” I heard myself say, the words out before I could stop them.I hadn’t meant to bring it up, not now, in this soft morning light.But it was there, the last thorn in my side.
