Page 49 of The Trade

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I’m still in bed,the sheets twisted around my body, when a cautious knock breaks through the early morning quiet. I have a sneaking suspicion that West is the culprit, especially since my phone’s been turned off since our call ended last night.

Internally, I’m in chaos. Panic swells in my chest, making my heart pound and my thoughts scramble. But externally, I strive for composure, raking my fingers through my sleep-tousled hair and hastily scrubbing at the mascara smudges under my eyes.

When I finally muster up the courage to open the door, my suspicion morphs into an undeniable reality. West is here. And God, he looks just as deliciously sinful as he sounded over the phone.

His broad shoulders fill the doorframe, stretching the fabric of his long-sleeved Henley T-shirt to its limit. His dark hair, unstyled today, falls around his face in a sexy, just-rolled-out-of-bed kind of way. His face is perfect, from his strong, angular jawline to his tanned complexion.

But as usual, it’s those eyes that reel me in—they’re the color of warm honey swirled with molten caramel, and they’re looking at me with an intensity that racks through me.

“Jade,” he greets in a voice that’s all gravel and raw emotion. His gaze sweeps across my face, as though he’s trying to memorize each tiny detail. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” I manage to breathe out, my voice barely audible. I step aside, gesturing for him to enter.

“You look good.” His gaze flicks across my body, a swift, head-to-toe examination that somehow feels more intimate than the events of last night. “Really good.”

“Um,” I stutter, taken aback by the compliment. I shift on my feet, awkwardly rocking back on my heels. “Thank you,” I say, but the words come out sounding more like a question than a confident response.

He raises one dark brow, an amused smirk playing on his lips. “Look, about last night—”

“We don’t need to talk about it.”

“I think we do,” he says firmly.

I glance back down the hallway, eyes flitting nervously toward Shannon’s closed bedroom door. “Okay, but let’s talk in my room,” I say. “Shan’s home.”

Without giving myself the time to second-guess, I grab hold of his hand. The warmth of his skin startles me as I tug him behind me. But as soon as my door shuts, the energy in the room changes. The air grows heavy, thick with unspoken words that crackle between us like static electricity, charged and unpredictable.

“Jade,” he rasps, voice low.

He steps forward, his fingertips lightly grazing the side of my arm. The sensation startles me, and I’m hyperaware of every point of contact. He moves another small step forward, and instinctively, I retreat a timid step back.

It’s a dance of sorts—forward, back, forward, back—until my back is flush against the cool wall, my breath hitching in my throat.

“Wait,” I murmur, a plea or a protest, I’m not sure. His strong hand cups my cheek gently, his other settling on my hip, grounding me. As he leans in, my resolve weakens. “We shouldn’t do this,” I murmur, even though every fiber of my being is crying out otherwise.

“Why not?” His breath ghosts over my lips, the scent of mint mixed with something distinctly him.

“I know we both got carried away on the phone last night,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m not just looking for a fun time, West.”

His grip on me loosens, his brows furrowing as he steps back, creating a much-needed space between us. “It’s Theo,” he mutters, the soft rumble of his voice betraying a hint of frustration. “And who the fuck said that’s what I’m looking for?”

His words hang in the air between us, an unexpected challenge. He’s so close yet so far—close enough to touch, to feel his breath on my skin, but far enough that I can’t decipher the thoughts swirling behind those captivating eyes.

“Nobody needed to spell it out for me,” I insist, my voice wobbling with vulnerability. “And I’m sorry if I gave the wrong impression.”

“Jade—”

“No, let me say this,” I interrupt, lifting a hand to halt his words. “I think—no, I know I like you. And I can’t just ... I can’t have casual sex with someone I have feelings for.”

His brows knit together. “I don’t want casual sex,” he says, voice laden with confusion.

I gulp down the knot in my throat. “You ... you don’t?”

“No,” he says firmly. “That’s not what keeps me up at night—the thought of fucking you.”

Suspicion flickers in my eyes, and I cross my arms defensively. His choice of words sounds like a red flag, but he’s quick to clarify.

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