Wine’s breathing on the counter. Candles lit — found them in a drawer under the spare dish towels, no idea who put them there. I’ve folded napkins. Not well, but the effort’s there.
None of this is for show. It’s not a grand gesture, not a setup for seduction — though God knows I’d like the night to end with her skin under my hands again.
I just wanted to do something…nice.
That’s the word.Nice.
Ridiculous.
I’ve built my whole reputation on being the man who doesn’t donice. I do efficient. Ruthless, when needed.Strategic. Not salmon and candlelight and watching the clock like a teenager hoping his date will show.
But it’s Friday and we deserve a quiet night in.
I’m not asking her to stay.
I’m bribing her. Gently. Hoping she doesn’t notice. Hoping she does.
I glance toward the hallway again. Still her voice drifting, wrapping up whatever agenda she’s been stuck with.
She softens me.
That’s the truth of it.
She makes me want to slow down. To take off the suit jacket before she tells me to. To open a bottle of wine before she even asks. To cook.Bloody hell.
I used to think softness made you vulnerable. That letting someone in meant giving them a weapon and hoping they didn’t turn it on you.
But she’s not dangerous.
She’s steady.
And I’m starting to wonder if this relationship might be the bravest thing I’ve done in years.
I hear the door down the hall open. Then her footsteps — soft but unhurried — padding across the floor.
My pulse lifts, ridiculously.
She appears in the doorway, hair still pinned up from the day but coming loose in strands. She smells like whatever soap she keeps in the ensuite near her desk.
Her eyes move to the table first. The wine. The candles. The salmon, just coming out of the oven.
Then to me.
“What’s all this?” she asks, one eyebrow lifting.
I don’t answer with words. I cross the room, reach for her waist, and kiss her, slowly and deliberately, until shemelts a little against me. Her body eases. Her hand finds my shirt.
Then I lean in close and nibble just beneath her ear, right at the soft spot that makes her breath catch.
“I’m trying to convince you to stay the weekend,” I murmur.
She laughs — that low, quiet sound that always feels like it’s meant just for me. Her hands slide up my chest, and she kisses me back, warm and deep and full of that same want I’ve had simmering since lunch.
But then she pulls back, just enough to look at me. “I can’t. Not the whole weekend.”
I raise a brow.
She winces slightly. “My aunt’s sixtieth. Family thing. I need to show my face.”
