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His eyes flick to mine, and something shifts in his expression. He doesn’t respond right away, but when he does, his voice is low and firm. “Good. Because I’d never let anything happen to you, Amara.”
Something in his voice makes my stomach flip, and it has nothing to do with the height.
Chapter sixteen
Nicholas
Honey.
Fiery orange with flashes of molten gold, like it’s been set on fire and tamed just enough to fall in waves. It’s lush, rich, and sweet and so fucking distracting, every movement of it pulling my focus. That’s the only thing running through my mind as I watch my assistant walk ahead of me, her orange hair swaying with each step, while the flashes of paparazzi cameras blind us as we step through the door into the jeweler.
God, I need to get a hold of whatever the fuck it is brewing inside of me every time my eyes find hers.
I’ve been fine for two years. Two solid years of keeping my attraction to her in check, only seeing her as my assistant. But now…
My neck feels tight, my heart pounding against my chest as I glance over at her, wide-eyed, staring at the jewels. Her green eyes are bright with wonder, and I can’t help but feel a pull in my gut.
My lips twitch, unable to hide my amusement at how genuinely excited she is. I haven’t seen anyone this stoked in a long time… Ever, really, since I’ve always been surrounded by people who all come from the same high-society bubble. I like it. A hell of a lot more than I’m willing to admit.
“Mr. Blackwood.” My head snaps from Amara to Mr. Carrington, his grin stretching wider when our eyes meet. “Glad to see you, sir.”
I give him a curt nod. “Thank you for accommodating us.”
“Of course, Mr. Blackwood. We’ve prepared a private viewing for you and your fiancée as per your request,” he says, making Amara’s head snap toward us, her eyes wide.
“You closed this place down for us?” Amara asks, her voice quiet and reserved, making me shiver. Is it possible to be attracted to a voice, because…fuck me. Sexiest voice I’ve ever heard.
“Of course,” I reply with a teasing smile, savoring the way she gulps. “You’re marrying a billionaire,honey.”
Her eyes go even wider at the nickname, and I can’t say I don’t enjoy it. I love how easily I can shock her with just a word. It’s like I’m addicted to that reaction, and damn, I want more. Maybe with her lips on mine next time.
She relaxes once she remembers we need to play the part of the happy couple, and she lets out a soft breath, her shoulders dropping slightly in a way that makes me ache for her.
“Would you care for some champagne?” Mr. Carrington asks, sliding over a tray with two flutes.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for a glass, my gaze flicking to Amara. She eyes me cautiously, unsure.
She reaches for a glass herself, murmuring a soft, “thank you,” before taking a sip.
I see it in the way she looks around the room, the way she hesitates before moving or speaking. She thinks she doesn’t belong here.
It pisses me off that she feels that way. I hate that she thought changing herself would somehow make me happy. It’s not that I didn’t like the outfit—I liked it more than I probably should’ve—but when she stepped out of her room in that tight, stiff outfit, with that uncomfortable look on her face, I hated it. She didn’t look like Amara. She looked like someone she thought she had to be, and all I wanted was to pull those clothes off her and get her back into those cozy, oversized sweaters that are all her.
My jaw clenches.
I need to get these thoughts out of my head.
I’m her boss.
I’m not supposed to imagine her pale skin, completely bare and exposed. I’m not supposed to fantasize about what she’d feel like in my hands. I’m definitely not supposed to stare at her lips and remember the taste of her kiss.
I clear my throat, forcing myself out of the haze of thoughts when I see Mr. Carrington showing Amara the array of rings he’s laid out for her.
Amara glances over her shoulder, her eyes locking with mine, uncertainty swirling in them. “These are for me?”
I nod, stepping closer until my hand lands on the small of her back, covered by a sweater I can’t seem to get out of my mind. “I thought you’d like to pick out your ring,” I say, catching Mr. Carrington’s watchful gaze. He—like everyone else—doesn’t know the engagement is fake, so while we need to sell it, I also want Amara to feel at ease. “You can pick whichever one you want,” I add, motioning to the display of rings.
She steps forward slowly, her eyes flicking over the diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds. The stones catch the light, each onemore breathtaking than the last, but Amara doesn’t reach for any. She just stands there, absorbed in thought, her gaze distant.