Page 30 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

“Sure. Business is important. I know that better than most.”

I walk her to the door, hyperaware of every step between us. She pauses in the foyer, and for a moment I think...

"You know," she interrupt the flow of my thoughts, her voice low, "for someone who lives by algorithms, you're surprisingly good at making a moment feel... real."

I take a step closer, the space between us shrinking. I can feel the heat radiating from her body, see the slight flush in her cheeks. Her eyes flicker down to my lips, then back up to meet my gaze. The scent of her perfume—something vanilla and spiced—fills the air.

“Just trying to keep up with you, Ms. Carpenter,” I reply.

I reach up, slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. She doesn't. My fingers brush a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear, then linger, tracing the line of her jaw. Her skin is soft, nearly hot to the touch.

From this distance, I can feel her pulse quicken under my fingertips, matching the rhythm of my own heart.

Her eyes flutter closed, and she leans into my touch, her fingers curling slightly into the fabric of my shirt.

The slight pressure as she pulls me closer makes my stomach tighten, makes everything below my belt come alive and stir.

Our breaths mingle, and up this close, I can almost taste her, the sweetness of the wine we shared still lingering there.

A shiver runs down my spine, every nerve ending alive and aware. Every inch of my body dying to bury itself into the one woman I know I shouldn’t?—

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

She startles, taking a step back.

It’s her phone. Ringing. Again.

This time with more bagpipes, playing what sounds like a pickle-themed remix of "Sweet Caroline."

She checks it.

"Dani," she sighs. "Apparently, the duel has evolved into some kind of fermented food fusion experiment."

"Sounds... innovative."

"Sounds like I need to go rescue my lobby. Again." She reaches for the door, then stops. "Thanks for dinner, Mr. Dixon. Even if you did try to calculate the perfect herb-to-egg ratio."

"I did not—" At her look, I admit, "Okay, maybe a little."

She smiles, tucking her phone away. "I really should go," she says, but her voice lacks conviction.

"I know," I reply, but neither of us moves. We stand there, the air between us still charged, still filled with the ghost of our almost-kiss.

Finally, she turns, opening the door. She pauses on the threshold, looking back at me. "Goodnight, Grayson," she says softly.

"Goodnight, Rosalind.”

The scent of her vanilla-scented skin lingers in my automated climate-controlled air long after she's gone.

"Sir?" CORA pipes up. "Would you like me to add 'cooking lessons' to your optimization schedule? I've analyzed several YouTube channels that?—"

"Mute, CORA. Just... mute."

I turn back to my too-empty penthouse, the silence suddenly deafening as I try not to mentally calculate the hours until Sunday dinner at La Famiglia.

9

SORRY, MY DOG ATE MY FEELINGS

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