He didn’t pause his stirring.“Kira,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact.“We dated briefly.A lifetime ago.It was a charity event for her new line.A photo op.A business arrangement.”He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze steady.“It meant nothing.You have to know that.”
“I believe you,” I whispered, and I found that I did.
He turned off the stove and divided the scrambled eggs onto two plates.He brought them to the table, setting one in front of me before taking the seat beside me, not across from me.Close.
We ate in a comfortable, quiet silence.The eggs were perfectly cooked, seasoned simply with salt and pepper.It was the best meal I could remember having.
When we were finished, he took our plates to the sink and rinsed them.I joined him, leaning against the counter, our shoulders brushing.
“I have to go soon,” he said, his voice low.“Meetings.”
“I know.”
He turned to face me, his hands coming to rest on my hips, pulling me gently closer.“Come to my place tonight.A proper dinner.No interruptions.No...drama.”The last word was said with a faint, self-aware smile.
My heart flipped.“Is that a request or a command?”
His smile deepened, a real one this time, crinkling the corners of his eyes.“An invitation.One you are free to decline.”
“I’ll be there.”
He leaned in and kissed me, slow and deep and sweet, a world away from the desperate claiming of the night before.This was a promise.When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine.
“Good,” he murmured.He pressed one last, soft kiss to the mark on my collarbone.“I like seeing my mark on you.”
Then he was gathering his things, slipping on his dress shoes, buttoning his wrinkled shirt.He looked every bit the billionaire again, but I could still see the man who had made me eggs.
At the door, he paused.He looked back at me, standing there in the middle of my sunlit apartment, wearing his shirt.
“Until tonight, Charlie,” he said, and then he was gone.
The apartment was quiet again, but the silence was different now.It wasn’t empty.It was full of the echo of his voice, the smell of coffee and eggs, the memory of his touch.
I walked to the window and watched as a sleek black car pulled away from the curb.I touched the mark on my collarbone, then brought my fingers to my lips, smiling.
For the first time since Henry Emerson had walked into my life, I felt not like a possession, but like someone who was chosen.And for the first time, I felt truly, completely anchored.
