Page 69 of Forbidden Fruit
"I’m so relieved my parents are supportive," I say. "Although, I’m still shocked by that turn of events."
"I look forward to making a good impression when we meet." His eyebrow raises in that way that makes my stomach flutter.
"I don’t think that will be an issue. They like your resume better than Jack's," I explain with a wry smile. "Your money impressed them."
He laughs, a deep rumble that warms me from the inside. "Ah, I see. Not exactly a ringing endorsement of my character."
"They don't know your character yet," I say, reaching out to straighten his already perfect tie. "But I do."
His eyes darken slightly as he catches my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm. "And what is your assessment, Ms. Jamison?"
"Excellent leadership qualities. Superior problem-solving skills." I lean forward, lowering my voice. "Remarkable kissing technique."
"That last one isn't on my LinkedIn profile," he murmurs, his lips now at my wrist.
"Exclusive content," I whisper, my heart racing. "For select viewers only."
The intercom on my desk buzzes, making us both jump. Lucy's voice comes through, professional but with a hint of amusement. "Becca, your two o'clock
is here. Should I tell them you need a few more minutes?"
I clear my throat, pulling back from Clive reluctantly. "No, send them in. Thank you, Lucy."
Clive stands, straightening his jacket with that easy confidence that still makes my breath catch. "Duty calls. Dinner tonight?"
"I'd love that," I say, quickly checking my reflection in my compact mirror to make sure my lipstick hasn't smudged. "My place at eight?"
"Perfect." He heads for the door, then pauses. "Oh, and Becca? Pack a bag. The movers are coming tomorrow for the rest of your things."
My heart flutters. "Already? I thought we were waiting until next week."
"I got impatient," he admits with a grin that makes him look boyish despite the silver in his hair. "Is that okay?"
"More than okay," I say, unable to contain my smile.
After he leaves, I take a moment to compose myself before my clients arrive. Moving in with Clive. It's happening so fast, but somehow not fast enough. For the first time in my life, I'm not overthinking, not trying to please everyone else. I'm simply following what feels right.
Clive
Iwake before dawn, sunlight not yet bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my bedroom. My bedroom. After decades of living in spaces that never quite felt like mine, the thought still gives me a thrill of possession. The penthouse has always been too large and empty, but not anymore.
Becca sleeps beside me, her dark hair splayed across the pillow, one slender arm thrown over my chest. She's been living here officially for three weeks now, though, in truth, she'd been spending most nights here for months before the movers came. I watch the slow rise and fall of her breathing, memorizing the curve of her shoulder and the soft part of her lips.
I never expected this. At forty-six, I resigned to a life of work and occasional companionship. After Kay, I'd had no interest in commitment. Then Becca walked into my office for that charity gala meeting, all professional efficiency and hidden fire, and everything changed.
Carefully, I extricate myself from her embrace, kissing her forehead when she stirs. She mumbles something unintelligible and burrows deeper into the pillows, lifting her blanket to allow Mr. Darcy to settle beside her. I pad to the kitchen, starting the coffee maker—the fancy Italian one Becca insisted was worth the astronomical price tag. She was right, of course. She usually is.
While the coffee brews, I check my phone. Three missed calls from Jack, all after midnight. I delete the notifications without listening to the voicemails. Whatever drunken tirade he unleashed can wait. Today is too important.
By the time Becca emerges from the bedroom, I've laid out breakfast on the terrace—fresh fruit, croissants from the bakery she loves on 73rd Street, and coffee in the blue ceramic mugs she brought from her apartment.
"Morning," she says, her voice still husky from sleep. She's wearing one of my dress shirts, the hem hitting mid-thigh. Her hair is tousled, her face bare of makeup, and she's never looked more beautiful.
"Good morning," I reply, pulling out her chair. "Sleep well?"
She smiles, reaching for the coffee. "Like the dead. Your mattress is still criminally comfortable."
"Our mattress," I correct gently. "Our home."
