Page 26 of The Boss
He reached and pressed the heel of his hand to the small of her back, asteady, anchoring touch. No push. No claim. She let her eyes fall closed at the simplicity of it, at how the smallest contact became the most obscene intimacy they’d allowed all night.
“Tell me something true,” hesaid.
She opened her eyes. “I used to count ceiling tiles when my father shouted. If I could get to the corner before he was done, itmeant the next day would be quiet.” She gave a breath of a laugh. “It rarely worked.”
He didn’t say he was sorry. She wouldn’t have believed it if he had. What he said was, “And now?”
“Now I count exits,” she said. “And I keep moving.”
“You stopped today,” he said, fingers flexing once against her back. “You stayed.”
She almost told him staying wasn’t the same as safe. Instead she said, “Your turn.”
He was silent long enough that she thought he might refuse. Then: “I wanted to be a chef when I was ten.”
She looked at him, startled. “You?”
“I liked fire that obeyed,” he said simply. “I liked ingredients that did what you asked if you respected them. Iliked the math of recipes and the freedom to break them once you understood why they worked.” He looked out at the river. “Then my father put me in a room with men who smelled like gun oil and told me to listen. Idid. Ialways listen.”
“Do you regret it?” she asked.
“No,” he said, and she believed him. “Regret is nostalgia wearing a hair shirt. Ispend my pain better.”
She huffed a laugh that wasn’t humor. “That’s bleak.”
“It’s useful,” he said. Then, after a beat: “I regret not finding you sooner.”
The words rolled through her like whiskey. She didn’t answer. She didn’t trust the sound that would comeout.
A gust shifted the night. He took her hand, not interlacing fingers, just enclosing, and brought her back inside, shutting thebalcony door with a soft click like a line being drawn that neither of them would cross tonight. He didn’t let go of her hand until they were in the living room again. Then he did, but he replaced the absence by reaching for a remote and pressing a single button.
Music slid into the space—low, old, apiano that knew something about patience. He looked at her. She looked at him. She didn’t ask. He didn’t explain. He simply offered his hand again, open thistime.
“Dance with me,” hesaid.
She hesitated for a breath that lasted too long. Then she stepped intohim.
He drew her in with a restraint that was like worship. One hand took her right, the other settled at her waist, heat through silk, fingers spread possessively but without pressure. She rested her left on his shoulder and felt the slow, controlled breath move through him, into her. They turned a small circle on the open rug, the city their silent, glittering audience.
“This is dangerous,” she said, because someone had to break the spell.
He hummed agreement. “So is not doing it.”
His cheek didn’t touch her hair, but the ghost of its nearness stroked her. Her body found the sway of the music. His found hers. Their knees brushed. His thumb moved once at her waist, no more than the thought of a stroke, and heat uncoiled inside her with humiliating speed. She didn’t pull away. She stepped closer.
They danced until the track ended and another began. They danced until her heels were off and she was bare-foot on cool wood, lighter and steadier than she’d been all day. When thesecond song wound down, he stilled their turning but didn’t release her. The silence blistered like a heldkiss.
“Tell me something that isn’t a weapon,” he said into that quiet.
She closed her eyes for a heartbeat. Then: “I wanted to study architecture. Iused to sketch buildings on napkins, figure out where the light would fall at different hours, how people would move through the space. How the space would make them feel.”
He pulled back enough to see her face. “And now you move through other people’s buildings like you own them.”
She smiled without joy. “Architect adjacent.”
He considered this, then nodded as if accepting a plan. “Design my home,” hesaid.
She blinked. “I’m not—”
