Page 49 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
“Cameron Lewis at two o'clock," Jakob murmurs, his voice dropping to that private register we used to share. "He's been watching since we arrived."
I nod slightly, acknowledging the information without looking. "What's the play?"
"Let him come to us."
His thumb continues its maddening pattern against my skin, the contact sending small shockwaves through nerve endings.
I swallow, trying to compose myself. This isn't just about the performance. It’s about how I’ll keep my job after this charade is over.
Every interaction calculated. Every encounter an opportunity to reinforce our narrative. To protect my position. To secure the audit.
I should be grateful for Jakob's thoroughness. For his attention to detail. For the way he's leveraging his influence to shield me from professional fallout.
Instead, I'm drowning in his proximity.
The familiar scent of his cologne fills my lungs with each breath. The ease with which we move together, anticipating each other's shifts and turns, feels like muscle memory I never managed to erase.
"Champagne?" A waiter pauses beside us, tray extended.
Jakob takes two flutes, handing one to me. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and electricity arcs between us.
His eyes lock with mine over the rim of his glass, and I know he feels it too.
Our chemistry never fully died, it just went dormant, waiting for a single touch to reawaken.
"Chanel Warren." A voice breaks the moment. "What a pleasant surprise."
I turn to find Cameron approaching, smile polished to corporate perfection, eyes sharp with calculation. “Cameron. Lovely to see you."
"And you, Jakob." They shake hands, the ritual of men assessing each other's grip. "Didn't expect to see you both here. Together."
"Trying to keep a low profile," Jakob says smoothly. "For Jaden's sake."
"Admirable." Cameron’s eyes flick to Jakob's hand, still resting at the small of my back. "And convenient, given the current... situation."
I feel Jakob tense beside me—the subtle shift in his posture that signals controlled anger. Before he can respond, I place my hand on his arm—a gesture that looks like affection but serves as restraint.
My fingers curl into the fine wool of his jacket, feeling the coiled strength beneath.
"There's nothing convenient about family, Cameron." I keep my voice light, though the words carry weight I didn't intend. "Some things are worth fighting for."
Jakob's eyes cut to mine, surprise flickering in their depths. I didn't follow the script there. Didn't stick to vague platitudes about reconciliation and privacy. Said something that sounded dangerously close to truth.
Cameron studies us, assessing. "Well. The partners will be interested to hear about this... development."
"I'm sure they will." Jakob's voice has cooled several degrees. "Though I'd hope personal matters wouldn't influence professional decisions."
"Of course not." Cameron's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Enjoy your evening."
He moves away, and I exhale slowly. "That was subtle.”
Jakob chuckles. “Yeah, right.”
I should step away. Should reestablish distance. Should raise the walls to protect my heart. Because this isn’t a fairy tale—this is fake—and it will serve me well to remember that.
Instead, I let him hold me there, my body betraying my mind, curving toward his palm like a cat seeking contact.
"Dance with me," he says.
