Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Grey

The watch on my wrist tells me it's already 5:30 p.m.

I'm parked at my desk at our office at Elysium, but my attention isn't on the coding work sprawling across my dual monitors. Instead, I'm glued to the security feed from Amelia's office hallway, which is far more compelling than any algorithm I'm meant to be tweaking.

My restlessness has spiked in the last few hours, fueled by an unusual nervous excitement about the evening ahead. It's a feeling foreign enough to have me questioning my own sanity.

What is even happening?

I could have logged off, headed home, and monitored her arrival remotely via Jamie's interface, but I chose to wait instead. I'll wait until she leaves to follow up shortly after, ensuring she gets home safely.

Yeah, because crossing a street can be so damned dangerous.

As I ponder my own overprotectiveness, her office door on my security feed finally swings open . Amelia appears, and I instinctively straighten up, ready to time my departure just right. But she stops, not rushing out as expected. Instead, she pauses by the aquarium that adorns the hallway.

My pulse quickens.

No way.

"Oh no, you do not," I mutter under my breath, eyes locked on the monitor.

This draws Oliver and Misha's attention. Previously engrossed in their own screens, they now shuffle over to my desk, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the live feed.

Misha lets out a low, disbelieving chuckle. "She's not serious, is she?"

But Oliver, leaning closer to the screen, confirms with a grin, "She definitely is."

We watch, in equal parts amused and baffled as Amelia, poised on her tiptoes, scoops fish from the tank. She inspects her catch with a delighted grin, then performs a quick, little dance, the bag swinging in her hand.

She stops abruptly, her eyes darting up and down the hallway. The joyous spark fades, and with a swift glance around, she hurriedly tucks the bag into her backpack and leaves.

"For fuck's sake, Amelia," I growl under my breath, my fingers flying over the keyboard to manipulate the security feed, ensuring no one else will be the wiser about her little escapade.

Misha watches the screen, still chuckling. "Little kleptomaniac," he teases, shaking his head. "Makes you wonder if it's only fish or if she's got a whole collection of stolen goods at home."

"I doubt she's the type to steal anything serious," I counter, my words tinged with uncertainty. "Though, apparently, fish are fair game."

She's like a magnet for trouble.

Oliver leans back, his laughter subsiding into a thoughtful frown. "Maybe there's a bigger picture we're not seeing."

"Probably," Misha agrees with a shrug, his eyes still fixed on the screen. "It's fun as hell, though."

"Yeah, but why these fish?" Oliver muses aloud. "I bet she earns enough. She could buy her own if she wanted. There's no need to steal them."

"Maybe it's the kick she gets out of it?" Misha offers.

I shake my head, my gaze still fixed on the now-empty hallway on the screen. "There's something she's not telling us. And I'm going to find out what it is," I declare, rising from my chair.

I quickly gather my things and then head out of our office without another word to the guys.

Reaching our building, I take the elevator up to our apartment on the eighteenth floor. Inside our home office, I position myself in front of the array of monitors. Amelia is already home and settling the fish into her aquarium. The tenderness she shows them only deepens the mystery.

What's going on in that pretty head of yours, Amelia?

With a sigh, I turn away from the monitors and head to my room and my en suite to splash water on my face. Looking in the mirror, I see a man caught between annoyance and fascination.

A fascination I shouldn't feel.

On a whim, I change into a clean shirt and dab on a bit of cologne—things you would do before a date.

Which this definitely isn't, I remind myself firmly as I check my appearance one last time. Yet the nervous flutter in my stomach mocks my denial.

Before I can exit our apartment, the door swings open, and Misha and Oliver stroll in. They look surprised to see me getting ready to leave already .

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" Misha asks, raising an eyebrow.

I straighten, clenching my jaw for a moment before responding. "Heading down to Amelia's. Someone told her I would be cooking dinner with her tonight."

Misha's eyes light up with mischief, and a wide grin spreads across his face. "Oh, shut up. You're happy you can take over the hands-on part of the beta testing." He chuckles, clearly amused by his own inference. "Otherwise, you would just be hovering over the monitors to make sure she doesn't hurt herself."

I scowl at Misha's teasing, but it's half-hearted.

Because he's right.

Oliver steps forward, nodding in agreement. "It's a good thing. Maybe she won't feel so lonely tonight."

Fuck.

He wouldn't want me there if he knew how I was thinking about his precious Amelia.

"Keep an eye on things from here then," I tell them, hoping the knowledge that they'll be watching us will keep me in check.

Squaring my shoulders, I leave the apartment and take the elevator down, my heart irregularly thumping as I approach her door. Standing before it, I pause, take a deep breath, and straighten my shirt. Then, with a resolute tap, I knock.

Here we go.

Moments later, the door swings open , and there she stands. "Oh, look who knows how to knock, after all," Amelia teases, her arms crossed as she leans against the doorframe.

Little minx.

I have to suppress a smile, happy she's back to sass. I was worried when I was too harsh with her earlier today, and she retreated from me.

I can't help but chuckle at her jab. "I thought I'd try something new. You know, manners ," I reply, stepping into her apartment as she steps aside to let me in.

"Shocking," she quips, closing the door behind me.

I kick off my shoes, and we make our way to her kitchen. I know that Oliver and Misha are watching our every move back in our office, and I feel guilty because she doesn't.

Fuck, we're assholes.

"So, spinach lasagna tonight?" I ask, trying to swallow the guilt while surveying the ingredients laid out on her counter, surprised she has already decided on something.

"Yeah, Jamie thought it'd be simple enough, even for a kitchen novice, and he already ordered everything we need for it last Saturday," Amelia says, her tone light.

Ah.

"Good choice." I nod approvingly. "Let's get started then. Jamie, you ready to assist?"

Jamie's voice chimes in from the speakers, "Always ready to help, Grey."

I wash my hands, and Amelia follows suit. Then she stands beside me, her face lit up with eagerness. I can't help but notice how her excitement makes her eyes sparkle behind her glasses.

"Jamie, preheat the oven to three seventy-five, please," I command, tearing my eyes off her to see if there is a lack of reaction, but the light goes on instantly.

"Oven preheating initiated," Jamie announces.

"First, we're going to mix the ricotta with spinach and herbs," I instruct, showing her how to combine the ingredients. I easily move around her kitchen, fetching each item as if I were in my own space.

"Let me try," Amelia demands, stepping forward to take the bowl. While she stirs, her hand wobbles, and a dollop of ricotta overflows.

Quickly, I reach out, catching the drip on my finger, and bring it to my mouth. "Doesn't taste too bad." Curious, Amelia dips her finger into the mixture, and I immediately wrinkle my nose. "Use a spoon, please."

"What, for this?" she challenges, her voice playful as she dips her finger in again, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Yes, for that," I confirm, a hint of mock sternness in my tone as I step closer to her.

"It's good." Unperturbed, she grins and goes for another taste.

This time, I act quickly, grasping her wrist before she can bring her finger to her mouth again. I bring her finger to my lips instead and suck off the ricotta, maintaining eye contact.

God, I wanna lick all of you.

Her cheeks flush, her eyes are wide with surprise and something else—perhaps delight—at the unexpected intimacy. She's momentarily speechless, her usual quick wit paused as she seemingly processes what I just did.

I don't know either, baby.

"Needs more salt, though," I remark awkwardly after releasing her and stepping back again to reach for the salt, glancing up at one of her many cameras on the ceiling.

Shit, no idea how to explain that to Oliver.

I show her how to layer the lasagna properly, our hands occasionally brushing as we work together. With each shared smile and glance, the kitchen feels smaller, the air thick with something.

The fuck I know what.

"Now, let's set up the stove for the béchamel. Jamie, set the stovetop to medium heat. "

The stove instantly reacts as I watch, affirming that our adjustments are functioning correctly.

"Stovetop setting adjusted. Ready to cook," Jamie responds in a prompt, clear voice.

"It looks like Oliver fixed the delay in responding," I say, more to myself than to her, but she answers anyway.

"And that in a day, given he was occupied with the personality update yesterday. He really is bloody brilliant." Her voice has a note of admiration that doesn't escape me. It's warranted, of course, but it kindles a small flame of jealousy in my chest.

Why though?

I should be so damn happy for Oliver that Amelia seems to finally notice him.

As I start making the béchamel, she watches intently. "I'm never able to make this without it clumping," she observes, her eyes tracking the whisk in my hands. "You're really good at this."

I'd love to show you what else I can do with a flick of my wrist.

"I have many hidden talents," I joke, stirring the sauce smoothly, which earns me a light chuckle from her. "Jamie, could you set a timer for the lasagna?" I ask while I pour the sauce on top of it.

"Timer set for twenty-five minutes," Jamie replies promptly.

"Now for the final touch," I whisper conspiratorially. She leans in, curiosity lighting up her eyes. With a theatrical flourish, I sprinkle a generous amount of cheese over the lasagna. " Voilà! " I declare, grinning as I empty the entire package.

She laughs, a hint of incredulity in her voice. "Isn't that a bit much? "

Meeting her gaze, I proclaim, dead serious, "There is no such thing as too much cheese."

I slide the lasagna into the oven, and Jamie announces, "Baking underway. Enjoy your culinary creation in approximately twenty-five minutes."

"Thank you, Jamie. If cooking with AI assistance always goes this smoothly, I might just do it more often." She smiles at me, one of her real ones.

Don't think I haven't noticed the fake smiles you give out at work, Amelia.

I can't help but respond with a bit of playful arrogance, "It's not the AI assistance. It's the Grey assistance. Without me, you'd still be picking up ricotta off your floor."

"Well, feel free to come and cook me dinner anytime," she fires back with a smirk, her tone teasing but not without a spark of challenge.

I would cook dinner for you every day if I could have you as mine afterward.

Not answering her little challenge, since I'm afraid of letting too much of what I really think shine through, I lean against the counter next to her. Crossing my arms, observing her, I notice the shift in her demeanor—the slight retreat into shyness.

It's intriguing.

She's sassy, and she has fire, but only if provoked. Left to her own devices, she second-guesses herself, and doubt creeps in.

Amelia is a complex blend of intelligence, vulnerability, beauty, and sass—a combination that keeps drawing me in deeper.

"Want to sit down?" she offers casually, gesturing to the chairs nearby. "The cook doesn't have to tidy up, or so I've heard. "

I chuckle, grabbing a cloth to wipe down the counter behind her. "Shut up. I thought this was teamwork."

"I mean it, I can—" she starts, but before she can finish, I place the cloth down, step closer, and lift her by the hips to sit her on the counter.

"You mean you can sit and watch? Sure." I chuckle, keeping my hands on her hips.

This brings us eye to eye, and I'm met with her wide, surprised gaze. A soft gasp escapes her lips.

Fuck.

If circumstances were different, if it weren't for the eyes I know are watching us and the professional boundaries I'm toeing, I'd let myself take a chance. I'd pull her close, our faces just inches apart, my hands firm but gentle. " Relax, you're doing great, " I'd assure her, allowing the moment to unfold naturally, dictated only by the chemistry crackling between us. I bet she would do as she's told, being the good girl she is.

Amelia's cheeks flush, and she averts her gaze.

No.

"Look at me," I growl out, and her gaze snaps back to mine. "Part your legs," I demand, unable to stay away a second longer.

She hesitates for a moment, her cheeks flushing, but then her thighs slowly spread apart. I step closer, my body pressing against hers, and I can feel the warmth radiating from between her thighs, drawing me in like a magnet.

I reach for her glasses, my fingers brushing against her skin as I pull them off and set them down carefully next to her. My hand then comes back up but lingers, tracing the curve of her cheekbone, my thumb grazing her skin. She shivers, her eyes fluttering closed once more.

I let my hand glide into her hair, my fingers tangling in the silky strands as I grip it at the base of her head. Pulling gently but firmly so she has to lean her head back, I give myself access to her neck. Her pulse pounds against my lips as I kiss my way up to her jawline, my mouth devouring her skin.

Her chest heaves with heavy breaths as I linger with my lips over hers. Searching her eyes, I ensure she wants this. But all I find is desire, her pupils dilating with need. I can see the hunger in her eyes, the desperation which only fuels my own.

I want this as much as you do, baby.

My lips brush against hers, a gentle touch that sends shivers down my spine. She opens her mouth, inviting me in, and I take advantage, my tongue sweeping in to claim hers.

"You taste like fucking ricotta," I groan out, my mouth devouring hers, my hands now cupping her face, holding her in place.

She moans into my mouth, her body melting into mine, so I wrap my arms around her, pulling her even closer. I can feel her heart pounding against mine, her pulse racing.

Her fingers dig into my back, holding me close as if she's afraid to let me go.

I'm not going anywhere.

Kissing her harder, deeper, my mouth devours hers with a fierce possessiveness.

I let her come up for a breath and place my forehead against hers.

But this isn't enough.

I need more.

With my breath hot against her neck, I lean in, my mouth nuzzling her skin, and take in a deep whiff of her scent. It's a blend as comforting and warm as a cup of London Fog tea, with notes of Earl Grey, steamed milk, rich vanilla, and a subtle hint of lavender…

"Grey?" Amelia's voice quivers, pulling me from the fantasy.

Or was it more of a daydream?

Fuck.

My face is too close to her neck, where I've just inhaled her.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Frozen, I realize what I was doing—holding her by the hips and breathing her in like some sort of… creep.

I snap back, creating space between us, hoping she won't see my obvious boner.

And Misha and Oliver won't either.

My hands linger on her hips for a moment too long before I finally let go. She adjusts her glasses, cheeks flushed a deep red, and I notice the lenses have fogged up slightly, a telltale sign of just how flustered she is. Clearly rattled, she avoids my gaze.

I'm a fucking idiot.

"Are you… are you all right?" she asks, her voice still shaking.

Am I all right?

"Sorry," I mutter, stepping back another step.

The space suddenly feels too small, and I start cleaning up the kitchen again, my actions mechanical. I'll be lucky if Oliver doesn't take a swing at me when I get home. Although it would be deserved.

She's Oliver's girl. Oliver is in love with her.

Amelia's voice pulls me back from the edge of my spiraling thoughts. "Are you always this tidy?" she asks, a tentative note in her tone as if reaching for normalcy after the awkward moment as she hops off the counter.

Relieved, I lean into the safer topic. "Living with Oliver will do that to you," I reply, feeling steadier now. "He likes things clean, and… well, I know you appreciate that, given how neat your place is."

Yes, let's talk about Oliver.

He's the better man.

She nods, seemingly ready to move past the discomfort too. "A clean space helps me think better," she admits, glancing around her immaculately kept kitchen.

"Same for Oliver. He's pretty good about keeping our place in shape and us in line with chores." I snicker. "He helps us a lot and makes it easier to focus on work… and everything else. He's amazing."

God, I want to sell him to her, not sound like I'm the one in love with him. But she has to know that he is clearly the right person for her. They have so much in common, and I should support that, not complicate it.

"And you? Besides cooking, any other hidden talents?" Amelia asks, her tone now steadier.

I chuckle, glad to return to our playful banter. "A few here and there. But let's keep some mystery for now." Eager to shift the focus away from me, I suggest, "How about some music?"

"Sure," she responds with a casual shrug. "Jamie, could you play some music for us?"

The opening notes of "Invisible Beauty" by Frank Dang fill the apartment, and I mentally kick myself.

I had programmed Jamie to include some of my personal favorite tracks that weren't in her usual playlists—Frank Dang included.

This song, in particular, reminds me of her.

I notice her body pause, her attention captured entirely by the music. "This is beautiful," she murmurs, her voice a soft echo of the melody.

As she looks up, her blue eyes meeting mine, the words linger at the tip of my tongue, almost escaping,

You are beautiful.

"Told you I could introduce you to music you never knew you needed."

She just smirks at that, and we finish cleaning up in companionable silence. I'm careful to maintain a respectful distance, hyperaware of the boundaries I almost crossed earlier.

"Your culinary efforts are about to be tested. Twenty-five minutes are over," Jamie chimes in, and I'm thankful for the distraction.

Tonight is a fucking mess.

As I pull the lasagna from the oven, the aromatic scent of melted cheese and herbs fills the kitchen. Amelia glances at the steaming dish, then at me. "So, are you staying to eat, or do you need to leave?" she asks with a hopeful undertone.

Do you want me here? Or do you just not want to be alone?

"I'll stay," I reply, setting the dish on the trivet. "I need to make sure we didn't mess it up."

We let the lasagna sit for a few minutes, allowing it to cool enough to eat. Walking over to her wall of windows, I gaze out, the gentle evening breeze wafting through the slightly open window.

Amelia joins me. "Is your apartment on this side too?"

"Yes, we're just four floors up from yours," I respond, glancing at the cityscape below. "You'll have to come up to watch a movie soon."

With all of us , of course, not just her cuddling into me on the couch .

" Planet of the Apes two?" She grins mischievously at me.

" Ugh , no, it came out in 2014, and nobody wants to see that. But we could watch Metropolis or 2001: A Space Odyssey ."

"Those are super old films as well, right?" she teases, poking fun at my taste.

"Vintage Sci-Fi," I correct her, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Why are you into that?" she probes, leaning against the window's glass with her shoulder.

"I don't know. I watched them with my grandpa, and… what people did with what they had back then is so much more impressive than what they do now with all the tech."

"You love tech. We work in tech," she points out, arching an eyebrow.

"True, but I like…" I pause, letting the words find me, "… the raw creativity. They really had to think outside the box back then, didn't they? Less tech, more brain."

Amelia laughs, the sound light and easy. "So, you're just nostalgic?"

"Something like that," I admit with a half-smile, shrugging. "It's about the art of innovation with limits."

"Is that the reason why you're the only one at Elysium with a classic watch instead of a smartwatch?" Amelia asks, a hint of curiosity in her voice as her eyes find the watch on my wrist.

"You noticed that, huh?" I reply, feeling a mix of surprise and a subtle warmth that she pays such close attention to me.

"I did."

The room seems to quiet just a little as I look down at my watch, my grandpa's watch, its hands ticking steadily. "Well, sometimes, the old things are just more beautiful and have more meaning to them. We shouldn't forget that with all the innovation."

Amelia's eyebrows furrow in a cute crease as she contemplates my words. It's a thoughtful, almost introspective look.

"Come on, let's eat," I offer, breaking the brief silence as I reach out to take her hand, walking her over to her table.

We take our seats, and Amelia watches me, curiosity lighting up her eyes as I serve the lasagna, scooping generous portions onto our plates. "Are you a vegetarian , too?" she asks, her fork hovering over her plate.

"I am," I reply, savoring a bite.

The flavors blend perfectly.

"For a long time?" Her question lingers in the air, punctuated by her fork finally diving into the lasagna.

"Since forever," I say with a casual shrug, taking another bite. The rich layers of the lasagna melt in my mouth, and I can't help but feel proud. "Do you like your creation?" I ask, nodding toward her plate.

She laughs, her hand covering her mouth like she always does, in a way that's both charming and guarded. " My creation? I think it's more yours than mine, but yes, it's excellent. You did an amazing job, even though you're fishing for compliments."

I shoot her a playful glare. "That was not fishing for compliments."

"Oh, I disagree," she retorts, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "That was definitely a stroke for your ego, Mr. Donovan."

Fuck, why are you doing this to me? Calling me Mr. Donovan like that, with that sassy tone and flirtatious glint in her eye, is just cruel. I have to shift my hips to give my poor cock a break from straining against my pants, which have been uncomfortably tight all evening .

"It's Doctor Donovan," I correct her, trying to sound stern but failing miserably.

"Oh my God, you're such a Billy Big Bollocks!" she accuses, her voice dripping with amusement.

"Billy Big, what?"

"You're a cocky arsehole." She grins, but she says it with such delight it doesn't really come off as an insult and makes the corners of my mouth twitch into a reluctant smile.

This kind of banter, sharp yet affectionate, is something I didn't know I needed. She is something I didn't know I needed—a breath of fresh air in my life, a spark of excitement that sets my pulse racing.

"You, Miss Stanley, are one of the lucky few who are allowed to call me Grey," I say with a smirk, counting on her to correct me, to tell me that she's a doctor too.

"Please don't call me that." She shudders, her expression grim.

"Why?" I ask, my curiosity piqued by her strong reaction.

"It reminds me too much of home," she replies, her voice tinged with a hint of sadness as she picks at her food, her enthusiasm dampening like a flame snuffed out.

I raise my eyebrows. "They call you Miss Stanley at home? Are you descended from royalty?"

She laughs a sound that seems to chase away the shadows for a moment. "Sure, you're sitting in front of a princess and don't even know it."

I can tell she's joking, so I play along. "Oh, you're very much a princess but not of royal blood."

"Hey!" she protests, her eyes sparkling with mock indignation as she mutters, "I am so not."

"What do your parents do then?" I ask, hopefully steering the conversation toward why the mention of London is uncomfortable for her .

"Father is a lawyer, and Mother a housewife," she answers simply, her tone nonchalant but her eyes avoiding mine.

I notice how formally she talks about them, but it's clear we haven't made enough progress today for her to open up more, which irks me. I want to learn more about her, to understand the layers behind that spark and wit. But I respect her boundaries, recognizing that trust takes time—especially with someone as guarded as Amelia.

"What do your parents do?"

Well, I brought this on myself…

"They're conflict journalists," I reply, taking another bite of lasagna to buy myself a moment to think about how much to reveal. She's not the only one who's guarded, after all. "They specialize in covering stories from war zones, providing news coverage from regions experiencing armed conflict." I rattle off what Grandpa made me tell people when I was a kid , and people asked where my parents were.

Apparently, "They went to war to interview the bad guys" wasn't good enough.

"Where are they right now?" Her brows knit together in concern.

"Somewhere in the Middle East," I shrug nonchalantly, trying to mask my discomfort with indifference.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her response catching me off guard.

"Why?" I ask, puzzled. People usually react with a how cool, or that's so brave , not with sympathy.

"That must be hard, always being worried about them," she utters quietly, her eyes reflecting a genuine concern.

It feels like I'm worried for everybody all the time. But I just huff, letting my guard slip a little. "I'd be more worried if they showed the same concern for me."

Her eyes widen. "They don't? "

"Not as much as parents probably should," I admit, the words tasting bitter as they leave my mouth.

"I know that feeling," she murmurs, a shadow passing over her features.

So it's the parents , then.

This conversation is straying dangerously close to therapy territory, and after the emotional roller coaster of the evening, I'm craving a break. "Have you watched any good puppy videos you can recommend today?" I ask, obviously changing the topic.

She tilts her head to study me but then seems to decide to let it slide. "Oh, so you're a dog person, huh?"

"One hundred percent. You are too, I guess?"

"I'm an everything person. I'd probably have a zoo if I had the time."

"What would you get first?" I probe, genuinely curious.

"A puppy, definitely," she admits, her voice carrying a hint of longing.

So, not more fish. Interesting.

"My grandpa has a dog. I take him for walks every weekend since he can't manage it himself anymore."

She perks up, leaning forward, her interest clearly piqued. "That's really sweet of you."

"It's not just out of kindness," I confess with a chuckle. "I love it too. Peanut needs the exercise, and I need the fresh air."

Her fork halts midair, her expression shifting to one of amused disbelief, her eyebrows arching upwards in surprise. "Wait, his name is Peanut?"

Realization dawns on me, and laughter bursts forth freely. It's a deep, relieving laugh that fills the space between us before she joins in with her giggles.

I have no idea when I last laughed that hard.

"I was going to ask if you wanted to join me for a walk, but I guess I should keep peanuts away from you," I quip, still chuckling.

Her sweet giggles soften into a gentle smile. "No, I'd love to join. Really."

"Sunday?" I venture, my words carrying a hopeful edge with a hint of nervousness.

I wanted to keep my distance, and now I ask her out? Is this what this is? Or just a walk between two new friends?

"Yes, Sunday is perfect," she whispers, her response almost lost amid the pounding of my heart in my ears. "I can't wait to meet Peanut."

And I can't wait to spend more time with you.

I stand to clear the dishes, and Amelia quickly joins me, grabbing plates and silverware.

When she watches me put away the last of them into the dishwasher, she says, "Thanks for helping with dinner. It was really good, and this was… nice."

"It was," I respond, feeling a genuine smile tug at my lips. "And now we're sure everything works as it should."

As if that was your focus tonight, Grey.

We finish tidying up, wiping down the counters one last time, ensuring everything is back in its place. It feels domesticated, homey.

I need to leave.

"I have to head out."

"Of course," she replies quietly, a hint of sadness in her eyes. "Thanks… again. It was fun."

She walks me to her door. I pull on my shoes, and as I step out, she looks up at me with an expression I can't quite read—something tender, something longing.

Fuck.

On impulse, I reach out and grab her hand, pulling her outside the apartment where I know the cameras don't reach .

In a swift motion, I draw her close, one hand at the small of her back, the other cradling the back of her head. I hug her tightly, inhaling the sweet, milky, vanilla-lavender scent of her hair. I can't resist planting a soft kiss on the top of her head.

"Good night, Princess," I whisper, feeling her hands clutch at the fabric of my shirt, her grip tight.

"Night," she mumbles into my chest.

After a moment, I release her, stepping back quickly. Turning away without another glance, I stride toward the elevator, the heavy beat of my heart echoing my rapid steps. As the doors slide shut, I'm left with the lingering warmth of her embrace and a tightness in my chest.

What the fuck am I doing?

I can't afford to feel this way, not about her. Not when Oliver…

I shake my head, trying to dispel the thoughts, my mind replaying every moment, every look, every accidental touch.

I'm in trouble, all right.

But for now, I'll keep it to myself, locked away where it can't do any more damage. At least, that's what I tell myself as I close my eyes on a breath, with her laughter still echoing in my ears.