"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing," he says, his voice warm with affection. "Just enjoying the show. I've never seen anyone look quite so... transported by pudding before."
"It's not just pudding," I protest, taking another heaping spoonful. "It's... childhood. Home. Everything good."
"I can tell." His smile widens. "You've got this little crease right here"—he gestures to the space between his own eyebrows—"that only appears when you're truly happy about something. It's cute."
I should be embarrassed that he's cataloged my expressions so carefully, but instead, I feel seen in a way that's both terrifying and exhilarating.
Around us, the table has fractured into smaller conversations. EJ and Johnson are deep in discussion about some sci-fi book series they apparently both love, Johnson animatedly describing a plot twist while EJ nods enthusiastically. Tom and Maya have their heads bent over Maya's phone, discussing some engineering concept with the intensity of true geeks, occasionally pointing at the screen.
Felix and Belforte have wandered to the balcony, their silhouettes visible through the glass doors as they stand looking out over the Jeddah skyline, Belforte's hands moving in that expressive way of his as Felix listens, nodding occasionally.
Blake's phone rings, and he glances at the screen. "It's Emma," he says, standing up. "Mind if I take this?"
"Go ahead," I say. "Tell her I said hi."
He nods and steps away from the table, his voice softening as he greets his daughter.
I look back at William, who's still watching me with that expression that makes me feel like I'm the only person in the room. He offers me a bite of hisbaklava. I accept, the sweetness of honey and pistachios melting on my tongue.
Chapter 29
More than just a view
Violet
After finishing our desserts, William leans his head back against the sofa’s headrest, his body relaxed beside me. The evening has mellowed, conversations softening around us as everyone settles into post-meal contentment. He turns his face toward mine, just looking at me without speaking. The intensity in his gaze should make me uncomfortable—should make me glance away, maintain some semblance of professional distance. Instead, I find myself turning toward him, mirroring his position, as we face each other in this small bubble of privacy amid the group.
He links his pinky finger with mine on the plush sofa cushion between us, in a gesture so innocent yet so intimate, it makes my breath catch. It's such a small touch—just the brush of his smallest finger against mine—but seems to carry more significance than a kiss, somehow. A secret connection, hidden from view but binding us together. But hell if I don’t want to kiss him senseless right now.
I reciprocate, curling my pinky around his in response. His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, pleasure evident in the subtle shift of his expression.
Beyond him, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Jeddah's skyline stretches like a glittering tapestry against the night sky. Modern towers with their geometric lines and colored lights create a futuristic panorama, while occasional traditional domes and spires provide glimpses of the city's ancient heart. The contrast reminds me of us—William and me—modern and traditional, professional and personal, public and private, all these contradictions somehow fitting together.
"It's beautiful," I say softly, nodding toward the view.
William's eyes never leave my face. "Indeed, she is," he responds, his voice low and warm.
Heat rises to my cheeks. Even after all this time, his direct compliments catch me off guard. I'm accustomed to being evaluated for my business acumen, my strategic thinking, my leadership—not for simply being. With William, I'm Violet. Just Violet. And somehow, that's enough for him.
He continues gently caressing my pinky with his, the smallest point of contact sending waves of awareness through my entire body. His gaze softens as he looks at me, the lines around his eyes deepening as he smiles gently. I notice the small dimples that form through his carefully trimmed beard when his smile reaches a certain threshold of genuine happiness. It's a detail I've cataloged, treasured, one of many small William-specific observations that live in a corner of my heart.
"You're impossible," I whisper, closing my eyes briefly.
"I'm just showing appreciation," he responds, his tone light with playfulness, "for the beautiful view."
"Of the city," I counter, opening my eyes to find him still watching me with that intense focus.
"Of you," he says simply.
The blush deepens. I lower my head slightly, unable to maintain eye contact under the weight of his sincerity. William chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through the small space between us.
"You're beautiful," he whispers, leaning slightly closer. "Inside out. The most dazzling, inspiring, badass woman I have the pleasure of calling"—his voice drops even lower—"my boss, friend, and..."
What’s coming next is clear. It’s in his eyes, in the cadence of his voice. One word that would change everything, that would acknowledge what we both feel but haven't fully articulated. One word we can't afford to speak aloud—not here, not yet.
I raise my hand quickly, covering his mouth before he can finish. His eyes dance with mischief above my fingers, crinkling at the corners as his lips form what I suspect is a smile behind my palm. He knows exactly what he was doing—pushing boundaries, testing limits, seeing how far we can bend the rules without breaking them completely.
