Page 23 of The Boss
His gaze slid back to her, slow, conscious. “We are.”
The hours passed. Sunlight shifted across the glass walls, cutting gold across the room. The work continued, names and numbers spilling across the screens. But the real current wasn’t in the data. It was in the air between them—thick, hot, alive. Every word, every gesture, every brush of skin built the tension higher, tighter, sharper, until she thought she might snap fromit.
When at last he shut down the monitors, the silence was deafening. The office dimmed, sunlight the only blaze across the desk. He stood behind it, hands braced on the wood, eyes locked onhers.
“We’ll find who tried to kill us,” he said. His voice was final, binding. He let the silence stretch, heavy as iron. Then softer, darker, the vow cut deep: “Together.”
Mariah’s breath caught. Together. Avow. Aclaim. Apromise she wasn’t ready toface.
She didn’t know if he meant thebomb.
Orher.
Chapter 8
MARIAH’S NERVEShummed, not from fear but from the burn of his nearness, the memory of his thumb dragging across her skin as if he owned it. They had worked all day, shoulder to shoulder, sparring and circling, tension winding tighter with every lead followed and every breath shared. Now the day was over. The city outside was lit with gold, shadows long across the skyline.
Leif pushed away from the desk and rolled his sleeves up again. “We’re finished.” His voice carried that finality that brooked no argument. He studied her for a long beat, his eyes taking in her flushed cheeks, her mussed hair. Then his mouth curved faintly, dark and sure. “You’re starving.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but her stomach betrayed her with a sharp twist. She gave a small shrug. “So are you.”
He nodded once and walked past her, into the sleek expanse of his penthouse kitchen. She hesitated before following, watching the controlled power of his stride, the way he seemed to command the silence. “I’ll call something in—” she began.
He turned his head, cutting her off. “No. I’ll cook.”
That surprised her enough that she stopped in her tracks. “You cook?”
He arched a brow as he began opening the refrigerator, pulling out fresh vegetables, herbs, meat that had been portioned with military precision. “Better than most chefs. It’s the only hobby I allow myself.”
The admission caught her off guard. Not because she didn’t believe him. He moved like a man who knew exactly what he was doing, stacking ingredients in neat rows on the counter. But because she hadn’t expected him to have anything so… human. So ordinary. He belonged to boardrooms, shadows, war councils. Not to cutting boards and knives.
“I don’t just watch,” she said finally, walking to the counter and brushing past him, her hip grazing his thigh. The contact was electric. “I cook, too.”
His eyes cut to her, blue and sharp, then softened with something darker. “Then prove it.”
The kitchen filled with the rhythm of them. He washed herbs, the scent of basil and rosemary rising into the air. She peeled garlic, the sharp bite clinging to her fingers. Their shoulders bumped, their hands brushed when they reached for the same knife, the same bowl. Every touch lingered a fraction too long. Every glance carried something unsaid.
“Not like that,” she murmured when she caught him slicing tomatoes into neat soldier-straight wedges. “They’ll break down better if you dice them.” She slid the knife from his hand, her fingers grazing his, and the heat that shot up her arm made her breath falter. She diced quickly, efficiently, aware of his eyes on her mouth the wholetime.
“Bossy,” he said, low, as though testing the word on his tongue.
“Efficient,” she countered.
He stepped in closer, taking the diced tomatoes from her board and dropping them into the pan where onions and garlic were already sizzling. The scent bloomed, rich and intoxicating. He leaned nearer to reach for the salt, his chest brushing her back, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. “You’re distracting,” he murmured.
Her pulse leapt. “Maybe you’re the one distracted.”
He gave a rumbling sound in his chest, something between amusement and hunger, and moved away just enough to reach for the meat. She exhaled shakily, but when he laid the steaks into the pan and the sizzle roared, she stepped in beside him again, brushing him intentionally. Testing herself. Testinghim.
Cooking became foreplay. He chopped with quick, decisive strikes, muscles in his forearm flexing. She drizzled oil, licking a stray drop from her finger, aware of his eyes tracking the movement to her mouth. She tasted the sauce, then offered him the spoon, holding it up. His hand covered hers, his mouth closing over the same spot her lips had touched. He held her gaze as he swallowed, and her knees almost buckled.
“Good?” she asked, her voice catching in her throat.
His eyes burned into hers. “Perfect.”
The word hung heavy, meaning more than the sauce.
They plated together, movements in sync, as though they’d been cooking side by side for years. The table was simple, meat seared and juicy, vegetables glistening with oil and herbs, bread warmed and torn by hand. He poured wine, the deep redcatching the light, and sat across from her at the long sleek table. Despite the space between them, she felt him everywhere.
