Page 28 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
He nods once, reaching for a bottle of red already open on the counter. He pours two glasses, handing one to me, and our fingers brush briefly during the exchange.
The contact shouldn’t affect me. Shouldn’t send a current of awareness up my arm. Shouldn’t remind me of the thousand casual touches we once shared without thought.
But it does.
I take a sip of wine to hide my reaction, letting the rich flavor coat my tongue. It's excellent. But I’m not surprised. Jakob never settled for less than exceptional—in wine, business, or women.
"Let's eat in the living room," he suggests, picking up both plates. "More comfortable than the dining table."
I follow him to the sunken living area, taking my usual seat on one end of the leather sofa while he sets our plates on the coffee table. He sits at the opposite end—close enough for conversation, far enough to maintain the careful bubble of space between us.
"Did Jaden get to his friend's house okay?" he asks, picking up his fork.
"Yes." I can't help the small smile that forms at the thought of our son. "Tyler's mom picked him up after karate. He was practically vibrating with excitement about the sleepover."
"He mentioned it yesterday when I called." Jakob's expression softens the way it always does when he talks about Jaden. "Something about a new video game they've been waiting to play."
"Meteor Strike." I roll my eyes fondly. "Apparently, it's 'epic' and'totally sick,'and several other adjectives I'm too old to properly appreciate."
Jakob laughs—a low, warm sound I've heard more frequently these past two weeks. "He said almost the exact same thing to me. Right down to the'totally sick'part."
"At least he's consistent." I twirl pasta around my fork, comforted by the familiar rhythm of co-parenting conversation. This is safe territory—Jaden, schedules, the small details of our son's life we both cherish.
We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds being the clink of forks against plates and the distanthum of the city thirty-eight floors below. It should feel strange, this peaceful moment amid a professional crisis. Instead, it feels like slipping into well-worn shoes—unexpected comfort where I anticipated pain.
"I've been meaning to ask," Jakob says, setting his wine glass down. "His parent-teacher conference is next Thursday. Should we coordinate, or...?"
The question hangs between us—a reminder of how carefully we've managed these interactions since the divorce. Always separate meetings. Always divided responsibilities. Always clear boundaries.
"Actually," I say, surprising myself, "we could go together. Might be more efficient."
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Or satisfaction. "I'd like that."
"Good." I take another sip of wine, unsettled by how easily I've disrupted our careful pattern. "I'll let Ms. Easton knows."
He nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. I drop my gaze back to my plate, unwilling to examine why that smile affects me more than it should.
"Tell me about the new security measures," I say, deliberately changing the subject. "The ones you implemented yesterday."
He nods. "Digital fingerprinting. Every system access is now being verified against behavior patterns. If someone tries to use your credentials, the system will flag the inconsistency immediately."
"And you think this will stop whoever's behind the breaches?"
"No." His bluntness surprises me. "I think it will slow them down. Buy us time. Nothing more."
"Time for what?" I hold his gaze, refusing to look away.
"To find them." His voice hardens slightly. "Before they do real damage."
"You have a theory about who it is." Not a question.
He sets his fork down, considering me. "Several theories."
"Share them."
He hesitates, weighing his words. "It's someone with access to both RSV and Novare systems. Someone who knows our history. Someone who benefits from destabilizing the audit."
"That narrows it down," I say dryly. "To about a dozen people."
