"I don't care."
"You should care. This is your company."
"And you're my woman. You're important to me. More important than board politics."
She's staring at me like I've just spoken another language.
"You're going to get yourself fired," she says quietly.
"Possibly."
"For a cooking show episode."
I tip one finger beneath her chin, pointing her gaze to mine. "I've spent the last three years making every decision based on strategy and optics and what the board thinks. And where has that gotten me? Frozen in place. Cranky as hell.”
"So you're going to blow up your career for me?"
"I'm going to stop pretending I don't want things just because wanting them feels unfamiliar.” I lean closer. "And I want you on that show. I want the world to see what I see when you cook. I want?—"
"What do you want, Victor?"
"You. Just you."
She kisses me then, and I instantly wrap my arms, crushing her soft body to mine. At this early hour, Harper is a ball of pure sunshine, her skin warm, her cheeks still rosy from sleep.
And when she pulls back, her hazel eyes are practically golden orbs of light.
"Okay," she whispers. "Let's do it. Thanksgiving episode. Your friends. Italian grandmothers. The whole chaotic disaster."
"You're sure?"
"I'm terrified. But yes. I'm sure."
I kiss her again, deeper this time, my hands sliding into her hair. She makes that sound—the one that drives me insane—and I pull her closer, my body fitting between her legs where she's perched on the counter.
"Victor," she breathes against my mouth.
"Yes?"
"We should probably stop."
"Probably."
"Before this gets out of hand."
"Agreed."
Neither of us stops.
Her hands are in my hair. Mine are sliding under my shirt—her shirt—finding warm skin.
"We're supposed to be taking this slow," she manages.
"This is slow."
"This is not slow."
"It's slower than what I want to do to you right now."
