I answer immediately.
Her hand slides up to my neck and mine finds her waist, pulling her closer until there’s no air left between us at all. She makes a soft sound from the back of her throat, and it’s all I need to deepen the kiss. Everything feels hot and focused, and I haven’t felt like this with anyone in a long time. When she pulls back, it’s only to look at me—pupils blown, breath unsteady in the same rhythm as mine.
“This is a terrible idea.”
“Yes,” I reply with a giggle. I drag my lips along the line of her neck, slow enough to make her feel every inch of it, and I can feel the shift in her breathing. The composure and thecontrol she’s managed to have are thinning. “I enjoy it very much.”
She laughs again, softer this time, then leans her forehead briefly against mine.
“Drink,” she says suddenly.
“Huh?”
“A drink,” she repeats. “Somewhere that isn’t your office. Somewhere we’re not pretending this is about schedules.”
I don’t hesitate. “Okay, yes. Tonight?”
Her eyes gleam. “You’re very eager.”
“You’re very distracting, Cecilia.”
“Ceci,” she corrects with a pleased smile. She steps back first this time, but her fingers trail lightly down my arm before she lets go. “Is seven okay? There’s that cute place four blocks from here.”
“I know it.”
“Of course you do.”
She turns towards the door, then pauses with her hand on the handle.
“Isabella,” she starts, then pauses for a second, gathering her thoughts. “If this ever touches his ice, I walk.”
“It won’t.”
She searches my face one last time—and finds what she needs.
“Seven,” she repeats.
Then she leaves.
And I stand there smiling like an idiot in my own office, pulse racing, already counting down the hours.
God help me.
CHAPTER 16
CECILIA
The bar is dim,deliberately lit to make everyone look better than they deserve to.
Low amber lights hang over the counter, casting soft halos over polished wood and cut-glass tumblers. There’s a consistent hum of conversation layered over a low, steady bass I recognize but can’t place. Not loud enough to drown out my thoughts, but enough to blur the edges and keep me moving. The place smells faintly of citrus and whiskey and whatever expensive cologne men think makes them interesting.
I almost turn around; my body knows that this is dangerous.
She’s at the far end of the bar, tucked right in a spot where there’s just enough light to recognize there’s a person but not to clock who it is immediately. I spot her, though, which doesn’t surprise me at all. She’s tall enough that even seated she carries more space than anyone around her. But it isn’t the height that pulls my eye. It’s the stillness.
Isabella doesn’t fidget. She doesn’t scroll. She sits with one elbow resting lightly on the bar, long fingers and manicured nails wrapped around a glass she hasn’t really touched. Almost like she’s suspended, waiting for everyone to come to her.
She’s not wearing anything dramatic. No couture coat or designer dresses like I’ve seen on her these past few weeks. No federation-perfect polish like the other night.
