Page 61 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
"We'll see." I check my watch. "We should get going. You've got karate in thirty minutes."
"I can take him." Latanya offers immediately, as she has a hundred times before. "You look like you could use some rest."
For a second, I'm tempted. A few hours alone. Space to breathe. Time to recalibrate the mess I've made of everything.
Then I remember Jakob's schedule. He'll be at the penthouse, working remotely after his morning meetings. Alone. Waiting.
"Thanks, but I've got him." I stand, gathering my bag. "We've got that parents' day thing at school tomorrow. I need to review some of his work before then."
"Jakob's coming to that?" Latanya's voice sharpens slightly. "Together?"
"For Jaden." I don't meet her eyes. "It's what co-parents do."
"Right." That same tight note in her voice. "Co-parents."
“But if you could pick him up after, that would be great.”
“Yeah, I got you.”
“Thanks.” I hug her goodbye, promising to call later. As we leave, I catch her watching us from the doorway.
The sensation of being observed lingers long after we turn the corner.
The penthouse is quiet when I return. Jaden safely delivered to karate, with Latanya picking him up after. Two hours of unexpected solitude stretch before me.
Two hours to work.
Instead, I kick off my heels, pour a glass of wine I don't need, and move to the window.
This is what I miss about living in the penthouse: people watching.
Manhattan sprawls before me, hustling with ambition and light. Somewhere in that maze is Jakob.
I press my palm against the cool glass. The wine sits untouched beside me, unnecessary courage for a decision I've already made.
My phone buzzes. A text from Jakob:Heading home. Need anything?
Two words that mean nothing. Two words that mean everything. The difference between ‘coming back to the penthouse’and‘heading home.’The acknowledgment that I might need something he could provide.
I type back:No.Pause. Delete. Try again: I'm already here.
Send before I can reconsider. Before I can armor up. Before I can lie to myself again.
The response comes almost immediately:Good. On my way.
Heat pools low in my stomach.
I don't reply. Don't need to. Just wait, pulse thrumming beneath my skin, the decision crystallizing with each passing minute.
When the elevator doors open twenty minutes later, I'm still at the window.
I don't turn around.Don't need to. I feel him enter the space—the subtle shift in air pressure, the weight of his presence, the sound of keys dropping into the bowl by the door. The quiet certainty of his approach.
He stops behind me, close enough that I feel his heat but not his touch. The restraint more devastating than any advance.
"Chanel." My name in his mouth sounds like hunger and caution intertwined.
I turn, finally, to face him. His tie is loosened, hair slightly mussed as if he's been running his hand through it. The careful mask of control he shows the world has slipped, revealing something raw and unguarded beneath.
