Page 56 of Stranger to Love

A subtle sound made me freeze. It wasn't the phone or a door, but a low, measured voice coming from the hallway.

I turned down the film enough to hear more clearly. It was Dr. Carter, and she was on a call, but she was pacing near the lounge entrance, her voice carrying clearly into the room.

“—no, I appreciate the update, Clive, but I believe I was very clear. The terms were not negotiable. If they fail to meet the delivery deadline, the contract is voided, and we move on to the next supplier. I’m not interested in excuses. It’s a matter of principle and efficiency.”

Her voice was all business—cold, sharp, and utterly devoid of the strange softness she sometimes used with me. The tone was professional ruthlessness personified. It was completely compelling and fucking hot. Strange though, I thought she was just a lecturer at the University, but this phone call sounded like she ran a fucking business or something.

She paced back toward the front door, her voice dropping slightly. “Yes. Send me the revised documents by 8 a.m. tomorrow. And Clive, ensure I do not have to chase you again on this matter.”

A second later, she appeared in the lounge doorway, already having resumed her elegant composure. She was holding a wine glass filled with something red and swirling it slowly. Her eyes went straight to the laptop on my knee.

“Your studies are progressing?” she asked, her voice dry.

I quickly minimised the course document, feeling caught out even though I wasn’t doing anything wrong—I just didn’t really want her to see it for some reason. I reached up and rubbed the side of my head. “Yeah. Better than expected, considering I’m slightly concussed and being held captive.”

She took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving mine. “Payment was arranged for your company, Alex. You are currently being remunerated for your confinement. Hardly hostage-taking.”

“Sure, but it’s still highly coercive,” I countered, giving her a defiant smirk.

She finally pushed off the doorframe and took a few steps toward me, stopping just short of the sofa. The catch of the evening sun gave her dark hair a coppery sheen.

“You’re comfortable, you’ve been fed, and your head is healing,” she listed, her tone coolly dismissive of my complaint. Then her eyes drifted down my chest to the navy leisure suit she'd found for me. “The clothes fit well, I trust?”

My whole body stiffened under her scrutiny, especially knowing I was wearing her cotton knickers. It felt like everything she fucking did was a claim of me in some way, and I didn't know why I kept letting it happen. I kept my expression neutral. “Perfectly. Thank you.”

She nodded once, the corner of her lip twitching into a familiar, subtle smirk. She didn't press. Instead, she asked, “Hungry? I can start dinner."

“Sure.” I smiled gratefully. I wasn't really hungry, but I wasn't going to say no to the offer. I smirked and added, “I’ll take a glass of wine too if you're offering?”

She rolled her eyes. “You cannot imagine I’m going to give you alcohol when the whole reason you're here is because you have a concussion.”

I shrugged. “I feel fine.”

She hummed and left, sweeping out. I guessed that wasn’t an outright no? I tilted my head and closed my laptop down. I followed her into the kitchen, the dark winter days making it feel a lot later than it actually was. She was already moving, pulling out pans. “Can I help?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “No.”

I leaned on the kitchen island. “Oh come on, I can help, it’s the least I can do."

She sighed like me being there was a complete impertinence to her, and yet she was the one forcing me. I pushed again. “I promise I can be trusted with a knife,” I joked. "I could just chop things.”

She straightened up and narrowed her eyes at me. “I said no, Alex. Stop being a brat and sit down.”

Whoosh, there went my stomach again. I bit my lip. She raised an eyebrow at me, waiting for me to move. I did, taking a seat at the kitchen island so I could watch her.

She smirked, satisfied. "Good girl,” she said, her tone low, as she turned back around to keep preparing for dinner.

Fuck me. She did not. No fucking way did she just say that. Shit, I was blushing again. I raised my hands to my cheeks as if I could stop the pink tinge.

I dropped my hands instantly, praying she hadn’t caught the rush of heat burning up my face. Of course she had; she noticed everything. I cleared my throat, desperate to pull together some semblance of composure, but it was a completely lost cause—not when she was dropping "good girl" in that low, intimate tone.

I leaned my elbows on the cool surface of the island, watching her movements. She’d already begun chopping vegetables on a massive wooden board—fast, precise, and utterly silent. Every movement was efficient, almost clinical, but with a surprising grace.

“So, Clive,” I said, deciding to change the subject before I embarrassed myself further. “The one who needs chasing. What kind of business do you run that involves delivery deadlines and contracts?”

She paused, the sharp knife hovering mid-air over a pepper, and turned her head slightly to look at me, but she didn’t stop chopping. “You’re awfully nosy for a patient who was just ordered to sit down.”

“Well, you’ve basically kidnapped me and paid me to stay here, Dr. Carter,” I retorted easily. “I think I'm entitled to a little background information on my captor.”