Page 17 of Christmas with My Ruthless CEO
With that cryptic instruction, he strides from the conference room, leaving me with a strange mixture of disappointment and anticipation.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of meetings, marketing reviews, and storm preparation logistics. By late afternoon, I've almost convinced myself that whatever moment Atticus and I shared has been subsumed by work demands.
Then a text arrives as I'm reviewing slope safety protocols with Spencer's team:Fire-pit lounge. After hours. Urgent.
Three hours later, I've changed outfits twice, cursed myself for acting like a teenager before a first date, and finally settled on a simple but flattering burgundy sweater dress with black leggings. My hair falls in loose waves around my shoulders, and I've applied just enough makeup to enhance without looking like I'm trying too hard.
Because I'm not trying at all. This is just a talk between friends. Friends who kissed. Friends who can't stop thinking about kissing again.
The HQ building is quiet when I arrive, most of the staff having departed hours ago. The lobby lights are dimmed, the huge fireplace casting a warm glow across the timber and glass interior. I make my way to the fire-pit lounge, pulse quickening with each step.
I find Atticus there, standing with his back to me, gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the snow-covered landscape. He's changed from his work clothes into dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders. His posture is relaxed in a way it rarely is in the office, one hand in his pocket, the other holding what appears to be a glass of amber liquid.
"Drinking on the job, Mr. CEO?" I say, announcing my presence.
He turns, and the intensity of his gaze as it travels over me sends heat coursing through my veins. "Just a nightcap. Care to join me?"
"Depends. Is this a business meeting or a social call?" I move closer, noticing now the fire crackling in the sunken pit, the two tumblers of what looks like expensive whiskey on the low table, the cashmere throw draped invitingly over the plush sofa.
"Definitely not business." He hands me one of the glasses. "I think we've both had enough of that today."
I accept the drink, our fingers brushing. "So, what was so urgent?"
Instead of answering, he gestures to the sofa. "Sit with me?"
We settle onto the soft cushions, closer than strictly necessary, the firelight dancing across his features, softening the sharp angles of his face. The whiskey burns pleasantly as I take a sip, liquid courage warming my veins.
"Are you sure you’re okay," he begins, setting his glass on the table. “With the kiss and everything."
"What about it?" I hold his gaze, refusing to make this easier for him.
"I don't regret it." His directness surprises me. "Not for a second."
"Neither do I." The admission feels like jumping off a cliff without knowing what waits below.
His eyes darken, and he shifts closer, one hand coming to rest on the cushion beside my thigh. "What I regret is waiting three years to do it."
My breath catches. "Atticus...”
"Let me finish." His voice is low, intimate in the firelit space. "I've been thinking about this, about us, all day. Trying to analyze it like a business problem, looking for the strategic approach."
I can't help but smile. "Of course you have."
"But there is no strategic approach to this, is there?" His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. "Not when I can barely focus on board calls because I'm remembering how you taste. Not when the only community integration I care about involves finding ways to be alone with you."
The raw honesty in his voice melts something inside me. This is Atticus Morgan, the man who calculates risk-reward ratios for breakfast, laying his cards on the table without reservation.
"So what are you saying?" I need to hear it spelled out, need clarity amid the whirlwind of emotions between us.
"I'm saying I want more than friendship." His thumb traces circles on my palm, sending shivers up my arm. "I want to explore whatever this is between us. No overthinking, no five-year projections. Just us, seeing where it leads."
I exhale slowly, studying his face in the firelight. "And what about after Christmas? When you go back to New York and I stay here?"
"I don't know," he admits. "But I know I'm tired of denying what I feel for you. What I think we both feel."
The vulnerability in his admission touches something deep inside me. This isn't the calculated CEO speaking, but the man I've come to know better than anyone, the one who remembers how I take my coffee, who stayed on the phone with me all night when my dad was in the hospital, who sees me as an equal in ways no one else ever has.
"What if we ruin everything?" I voice the fear that's been holding me back. "Our friendship...”
