Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I freeze, acutely aware of my inappropriate attire. He looks up from his phone, his expression shifting from business mode to something I can’t quite read.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—I should change,” I manage, self-consciously tugging at my worn T-shirt.
“Don’t bother on my account,” he says, voice cool and professional. “This is your living space too.”
But his eyes linger a moment too long, contradicting his detached tone. I break eye contact first.
“Right. Well, I’ll try to be more . . . prepared . . . in the future,” I say stiffly.
His eyebrow raises slightly. “No need to stand on ceremony, Ms. Whitmore. We’ll be sharing this space for the foreseeable future.”
The formal address feels like both a reminder and a challenge.
Heat blooms across my neck and cheeks. I attempt to slip past him to the coffee maker, but the kitchen suddenly feels impossibly narrow. Our arms brush accidentally, and I jerk away as if burned. He stiffens but doesn’t move, forcing me to navigate around him. The power play isn’t lost on me.
“Sleep well?” he asks, his voice neutral but his eyes following my movements with unsettling intensity.
“Like someone who just agreed to defuse a ticking time bomb. Less than a month is . . .” I reply, focusing intently on the coffee machine instead of looking at him. “This thing requires an engineering degree to operate.”
He reaches past me to press a button, his chest nearly touching my back. I can feel his breath on my neck, stirring loose strands of hair. Neither of us acknowledges how deliberately close he’s standing.
“Just this button,” he says, voice dropping lower. “For future reference.”
A throat clears from the doorway. “Cole.” Knox stands there with an iPad, carefully avoiding looking at our proximity. The tips of his ears are slightly pink. “The launch projection reports are in.”
Cole steps back, though his eyes remain fixed on mine. Something unspoken passes between us, heavy with promise. “We’ll discuss it in my office.” He clears his throat and continues, “I have meetings all day, but if you need anything—”
“I’ll be fine,” I interrupt, even though I have no idea if I will be. I have no idea where to start this day.
I remain frozen in place long after he leaves, my coffee forgotten. The kitchen feels different without him in it—bigger, emptier somehow. My skin still tingles where we touched, and I press my hands against the cool marble counter to ground myself.
What is wrong with me? I’m here to work, to create something fresh and exciting, not to get caught up in whatever this electricity between us means. I’ve fought too hard to be taken seriously as an artist to let myself get distracted now, even by a man who looks at me like that.
Gathering what’s left of my composure, I retreat to my studio. The familiar sight of tools and workbenches centers me, reminds me why I’m really here. This is my space, my sanctuary, where I can focus on what matters . . . my art, my vision, my future.
The pristine equipment waits like an artist’s dream made real. Every tool I’ve ever coveted gleams under perfect lighting. German files with handles worn to my exact grip preference, precision calipers, casting equipment that would make my old professors weep with envy.
I get down to work and two hours pass in a blink, the cameras catching my attention periodically, their tiny red lights blinking steadily. I wonder if Cole observes my work, if he’s watching right now. The thought sends an unexpected thrill down my spine, followed immediately by confusion. When did the idea of his surveillance start feeling less like an invasion and more like . . . anticipation?
My phone buzzes—Chloe demanding details about everything. The screen fills with question marks and exclamation points that perfectly capture her personality. A smile tugs at my lips as I type back that I’ll tell her everything in person.
After changing into a sweater and jeans, I gather my courage and my purse. I need coffee with my best friend, need to process whatever this situation is becoming.
I’m halfway to the elevator when Knox emerges from what I thought was a plain wall panel. His sudden appearance makes me jump.
“Good morning, Ms. Whitmore.” Cole’s security guy. His tone is professional, but there’s something assessing in his gaze as he takes in my outdoor attire. He’s all military precision—crew cut silver-blond hair, impeccable posture, and the watchful eyes of someone who misses nothing. Despite the expensive suit, there’s no mistaking the coiled readiness of a former Special Forces operative. “Planning to venture out?”
“I . . .” For a moment I consider lying, then realize how ridiculous that is. I’m a grown woman. I can leave if I want to. “Yes. Meeting a friend for coffee.”
He nods as if this is perfectly normal, though something in his posture shifts. “I’d be happy to drive you.”