Page 40 of Christmas with My Ruthless CEO
"Reserved," I correct. "At least in public."
His expression softens. "You're changing me, Sloane Parker."
Before I can respond, we're intercepted by Vivienne Morgan, resplendent in midnight blue and pearls, her silver-blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon.
"Darling, that was quite the speech," she says, air-kissing Atticus's cheek. "Very personal. The board would have collective heart failure."
"Fortunately, they're not here," he replies dryly.
"No, but half of Manhattan's social elite is." She gestures toward a cluster of expensively dressed visitors. "Charlotte Whittington sends her regards, by the way. And her new fiancé."
Atticus's eyebrow raises slightly. "Fiancé? That was... quick."
"Apparently, she met him at the very gala I tried to set you two up for last month." Vivienne's eyes twinkle with mischief. "So really, your stubbornness did her a favor."
"I'll be sure to send my congratulations," he says, not a hint of regret in his voice.
"I'm sure you will." Vivienne turns her attention to me. "That color is exquisite on you, my dear. Atticus always did have an excellent eye."
"Thank you," I reply, surprised by the genuine warmth in her tone. "You look stunning yourself."
"At my age, it takes considerably more effort," she says with a self-deprecating wave. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I promised Mindy I'd give her the name of my interior designer. Those twins deserve a bedroom that doesn't look like a primary color explosion."
As she glides away, I can't help but smile. "Your mother continues to surprise me."
"That makes two of us," Atticus admits, his hand still warm at my back. "Though not as much as you continue to surprise me."
"Me? I'm an open book."
"The most fascinating book I've ever read." His voice drops lower, meant only for me. "And I can't wait to continue exploring every page later tonight."
Heat blooms in my cheeks at the promise in his words. Two weeks of increasingly passionate encounters, in his cabin, in my apartment, once memorably in the conference room after hours, and still, my body responds to his slightest suggestion like a tuning fork struck at the perfect frequency.
"Behave," I warn, though there's no force behind it. "We have public obligations until at least eleven."
"And then?" he prompts, eyes darkening with intent.
"And then we'll see if you've earned a private audience, Mr. CEO."
His laugh is low and warm, sending pleasurable shivers down my spine. "Challenge accepted, Ms. Parker."
The next hour passes in a whirl of conversations, introductions, and the practiced mingling that comes with hosting a successful event. I watch with pride as Atticus charmsthe town council, discusses sustainable tourism with local business owners, and even crouches down to admire a little girl's holiday dress with genuine interest.
This man, this complex, brilliant, increasingly warm-hearted man, has become so much more than my best friend or even my lover. He's become essential, a part of me I can't imagine being without.
The realization should terrify me. In less than two weeks, the holidays will be over. The Winter Division will officially launch. And Atticus will return to New York, to board meetings and corporate politics and a life a thousand miles removed from Hope Peak.
We've talked around the subject, made vague promises to "figure it out," but the reality looms larger with each passing day. Long-distance relationships are hard enough without adding the complexity of his high-pressure career and my deeply rooted ties to Hope Peak.
"There you are!" Brynn's voice pulls me from my thoughts. She approaches with Callum beside her, both looking festive in holiday attire. "The photographer wants a shot of the key team members by the ice sculpture."
"Of course." I push my worries aside, professional mask firmly in place. "Have you seen Jenna and Marcus?"
"Already waiting," Callum confirms. "Along with Mr. Morgan and the council representatives."
I follow them to the center of the room, where Atticus stands with Levi, Marcus, and Jenna beside the elaborate ice sculpture. His face brightens when he sees me, extending his hand to draw me into the group.
"Our missing piece," he says, positioning me beside him. His fingers brush mine, a small gesture that speaks volumes. "Now we're complete."
