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I understand why she’d be so worked up about it. She’s my assistant. A great one. A professional one who never once stepped out of line. And yet—
“That wasn’t in the contract,” she says suddenly, making me glance down at her.
“No, it wasn’t,” I admit, rubbing my chin, the short hairs rubbing against my fingers. “But you’re supposed to be my fiancée, Amara. There’s no world where I wouldn’t kiss you looking likethat,” I tell her, my eyes scanning her from head totoe, drinking her in, memorizing her before she steps foot in her apartment, and I have to close my eyes to picture her again.
Her eyes snap to mine, wide and unblinking, her chest rising and falling with each heavy breath she takes.
“It would’ve been suspicious not to,” I add.
“Suspicious,” she echoes, her brows knitting together.
I nod. “Of course. I’ve kissed plenty of dates before. This is just another part of the act.”
A muscle in my jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think I’ve pushed too far. “Do you… want to amend the contract?” I ask her, my mind and body and every other part of me rebels at the idea of never being able to kiss her. But the last thing I want to do is make her uncomfortable in any kind of way. “To add a no-kissing rule?”
Amara stares at me, her lips parting slightly as if she’s about to say something, but then she stops, pressing them into a thin line.
The elevator hums quietly around us as the dull light glows over her. Her cheeks are still flushed from earlier—whether from the gala or the kiss, I don’t know—but it’s a sight I can’t seem to look away from.
Finally, she exhales and shakes her head. “No.”
Her answer sends a jolt of relief racing through me. My lips twitch into a small, involuntary smile, but I quickly disguise it by rubbing a hand over my mouth.
Get it together, Nicholas.
But all I can think about right now is when the next time I’ll be able to kiss her will be.
The elevator dings, its doors sliding open to reveal another dimly lit hallway. I follow her as she walks to her door, her keys jingling as she unlocks it and nudges it open with her hip.
Her fingers clutch her purse, her knuckles whitening as she avoids my gaze. “I made it home safe. Thank you for walking me up, but you can go now.”
My eyes narrow, my gaze flickering to the peeling paint on the hallway walls, the flickering light overhead, the faint sound of someone shouting in the distance.
“Mind if I come in?”
She stiffens, her gaze darting behind her to the door. “Um… my space is pretty small, so…”
I shrug. “I don’t mind.”
Her lips part like she’s about to protest, but instead, she lets out a soft sigh, turning to push open the door, stepping inside, and I follow, my stomach tightening the moment I see where she’s been coming home to at night.
My jaw clenches as my gaze sweeps over the space. The walls are a dingy off-white, the wallpaper peeling in more places than not. The furniture is mismatched and worn, looking as if she found it in the trash.
Amara drops her purse onto the arm of a sagging couch, moving toward a kitchenette that’s nothing more than a counter and a mini fridge. She keeps her back to me, her shoulders stiff.
“Do you want anything to drink?” she asks, her voice clipped, as though she’s trying to rush me out.
I don’t answer. My eyes are still taking in the space, the cracked tiles in the kitchen, the water stain on the ceiling, the faint sound of someone’s television bleeding through the walls.
How the hell can one of my employees—my assistant, whom I pay a pretty healthy wage to—live somewhere like this?
The fridge door squeaks as she opens it, and the sound yanks me out of my thoughts. “Nicholas?” She glances over her shoulder, her voice cutting through my thoughts.
The thought of her coming home to this every night makes something twist in my gut. Because this isn’t just small—it’s suffocating. Because she deserves better.
I should say none of that. I should walk out, get in the car, and let her go. But I can’t.
Before I can stop myself, the words tumble out of my mouth. “Move in with me.”