Page 43 of When Hearts Ignite
Don’t make me come over there and haul you out of your office.
Ryland
Welcome to almost being thirty. Enjoy your last year before you become old like the rest of us.
Parker
Considering I’m the oldest out of everyone, that is a bit offensive.
Maxwell
Ryland is a coldhearted bastard. Ignore him.
Rex
Burn. The man who never speaks always tells the truth.
Lana
My brothers are idiots, and I’m still in the twenties club. Happy birthday, Steven. Dinner soon?
Charles
I’m not getting in the middle of the Anderson squabble. As your good friend, I’m obligated to make sure you aren’t burying yourself in work today. I have spies at your firm. If they report you’re at the office past five today, don’t blame me for taking more extreme measures.
I smirk at the text messages; the vines circling my lungs loosen slightly, and I turn on the silent function on my phone. At this rate, in a matter of minutes, there’ll be at least fifty messages from the group chat, which they changed the name from “The Orchid Shenanigans” to “Save Steven from Himself.”
Soft footsteps approach me. A hint of jasmine wafts through the air and I inhale the sweet scent, my heart beginning to kick up in rhythm because I already know who’ll be standing in front of me when I look up.
Someone who makes me want to spill the heaviness in my soul, letting her shoulder part of the burden, so I can rest my head against her warmth for a brief respite.
Someone whose quiet conversations in the morning sustain me for the rest of the day. It’s as if the world has stopped and we’re the only two people left standing. And everything is still fine. More than fine.
Someone who drives me crazy. Insane. Mad with emotions I never thought I had, gifting me with the liabilities plaguing my father his entire life.
Someone I’ll have to deliver a devastating blow to on Friday.
Grace.
My hands slowly curl into fists, and I swallow the sudden lump forming in my throat. I feel as if my carefully crafted world is spinning out of control, and I don’t know what to do.
She’ll understand.
She’s considerate and kind and can see through me. She knows me better than most people. She’s also logical and reasonable. She’ll understand this is a business decision and has no bearing on us—whatever we are.
My reassurances are weak, even in my mind. Looking up, I find her standing in front of me, her hair tied up in a simple ponytail, her face devoid of makeup as usual. She’s wearing another variation of her grandmother’s closet, but I don’t seem to notice the details anymore.
All I see are her large eyes, almost sapphire in the mid-morning light, with a hint of gray at the edges, her pert nose, those perfectly symmetrical lips. Her tongue dips out, the movement reminding me of yesterday morning, and my groin clenches in response.
“Mr. Kingsley,” she says, her sweet voice slightly breathless, as if she could read all the nonsensical thoughts flittering through my mind.
“Grace.” I have an irrational impulse to whisper her name against her soft skin, to feel goosebumps pebble her flesh as she shakes beneath me.
Fuck. Something is terribly, horribly wrong. The insomnia is getting to you, Steven.
We stare at each other, the soft blue light from the windows highlighting the way her pupils widen as the silence stretches on. The way her breath seems to catch in her throat. The way her delicate throat ripples as she swallows.
She blinks, her long lashes fan against her cheeks, and subtly shakes her head. She shoves a stack of binders on my desk. The thump reverberates in the quiet room.
