Page 3 of Crossing Lines

“Nina,” Evren says, sitting in the seat next to me. My laughter dries up the second he says my name inthatway. Soft and deliberate, almost like a touch, his Turkish accent wrapping around the syllables like he’s breathing new life into them.

I freeze, my heart stuttering as the space between us hums with tension. My skin prickles with awareness as the space beside me feels suddenly too small, shrinking with his presence.

I glance toward him, slow and deliberate, every nerve in my body suddenly on high alert. The air thickens, suffocatingly so, as if his very presence demands to be felt. His scent—spicy, woodsy, with a hint of something else I can’t place—wraps around me, sinking into my lungs, making it impossible to ignore him.

And then his knee brushes against mine under the table. Just a light touch, barely there, but it’s enough to send a jolt of electricity through me, rooting me to the spot. My breath catches, heart pounding in response to something I desperately wish I didn’t feel.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why does he—of all people—have the power to make my body react like this? It’s infuriating, unacceptable, and completely unforgivable.

Evren Kaya stands for everything I despise. He’s polished perfection, with his designer suit and his expensive haircut. I bet he’s never known a single difficult day in his cushiony life.

I grew up fighting for every scrap, every inch, every ounce of who I am. The world he lives in—wealthy, pristine, predictable—is everything I’m not. The very idea of someone like him having any kind of sway over me is absurd.

“Evren,” I say sharply, my voice cutting through the air like a blade. “You’re in the wrong seat.”

His gaze locks on to mine. The weight of it pulls at me, like a physical force I can’t shake off, eventhough I’m trying, hard. My skin prickles, and I grip the edge of my seat to stay composed.

“I think,” he says, his voice low, “I can read my own name card.” He nods toward the stupid piece of card stock in front of his plate.

“And that name card can easily be placed somewhere else.”

“Why? Are you scared to sit next to me?”

“Scared?” I scoff. “Of you? Please.” I roll my eyes for effect, forcing myself to lean back in my chair, praying my dress doesn’t spontaneously unravel with the movement.

“Then why the sudden need to rearrange the seating chart?”

“Because I like to keep my personal space, and you’re crowding it.” I give his leg a pointed look, a leg that’s far too close to mine.

His lips twitch, eyes gleaming with something too knowing, too damn self-assured. “Is that so?” He brushes his leg against mine for a heartbeat before pulling away. “Unfortunately, we can’t change the name cards.”

“Of course we can. A little swap and done. No one would know.”

“But there are people whose job was to create this seating chart. Why give them more work after they’ve spent weeks perfecting it?”

“Ohhh, I see,” I say, refusing to acknowledge that he has a point. “You’re a rule follower.”

“And you’re clearly not.”

“Is it so obvious?”

“Only if you’re looking for it.”

“And what?” I scoff. “You see me?”

“I always see you.”

“Always? That’s a bold claim.”

“Bold but true.” He leans closer to me, as if about to tell me a secret. “Trust me, I’d notice if you weren’t around.”

I snatch my glass of champagne and take a hefty gulp, hating the flicker of curiosity his words spark. Nope, not going there. I need a subject change, and fast.

“Whatever you say,” I reply, brushing it off. “So…is the off-season basically just charity season for you guys?”

“It appears that way, yes.”

I frown, confused by his answer. It’s the beginning of March and he’s acting like he doesn’t know what the off-season entails.

---