Page 71 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

She studies me for a moment, something unreadable passing across her features. Then she settles against my chest, her headfitting perfectly beneath my chin, legs tangling with mine as if they never forgot their place. As if our bodies remembered what our minds tried to forget.

"We're breaking all the rules," I murmur into her hair, the realization hitting with sudden clarity. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

"Which part?" Her voice carries a hint of amusement, of the sharp wit I've always admired, always craved.

"All of it. The sex. The truth. The—" I stop, catching myself before naming what's happening in my chest, my gut, my soul. The thing I swore I wouldn't do again. The thing I never really stopped doing.

She tilts her head back, looking up at me with eyes that see too much. That always have. "The falling in love part?"

The directness staggers me, leaves me wordless for perhaps the first time in my adult life. I swallow hard, hand stilling where it had been tracing patterns on her back. "Chanel?—"

"Because I'm pretty sure that ship has sailed," she continues, a hint of challenge in her voice. "For both of us."

The admission—or accusation—hangs between us, impossible to deny. Terrifying to confirm.

"I never stopped," I confess finally, words barely audible. "Not really."

She nods once, as if confirming a suspicion rather than receiving a revelation. Then she settles back against my chest, body relaxing into mine with surprising ease given the magnitude of what's just been exchanged.

"Chanel," I start again, uncertainty a foreign sensation. "What does this mean? For us? For the arrangement?"

"Mmm." The sound vibrates against my skin, sleepy and somehow profound. "Can we figure that out tomorrow?"

The simplicity of the request disarms me completely. The pragmatism so essentially Chanel—not avoiding theconversation, but prioritizing rest, clarity, the power of morning light to illuminate what night has revealed.

"Of course," I murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Tomorrow."

She's quiet for so long I think she's fallen asleep. Then her voice emerges, thick with approaching dreams but clear in intent: "Babe, get some rest. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out tomorrow."

The endearment—casual, unconscious, intimate—hits like a physical blow. The ease with which it falls from her lips suggesting something I barely dare hope for. Something I've wanted since before I knew what wanting was.

A second chance I don't deserve—but will spend every remaining breath earning.

I tighten my arms around her, feeling her body go lax with sleep, her breath evening out against my chest. And for the first time in four years, I close my eyes without bracing for dreams of what I've lost.

Instead, I dream of what we might still become.

THIRTEEN

THE HIGH BEFORE THE STORM

CHANEL

Happiness has weight. Mass. Density.

It sits on my chest this Sunday morning—this strange, forgotten pressure. Not unpleasant, but unfamiliar enough to wake me before the rest of the house stirs.

I lie still, orienting myself to the sensation. To being in Jakob's bed for the second night. To the arm draped across my waist with casual possession. To the rhythm of breath against my neck, steady and warm.

To the terrifying ease of all of it.

I extricate myself carefully, practiced in the art of leaving sleeping men. But as I slip from beneath the sheets, his fingers tighten briefly around my wrist.

"Stay." His voice rough with sleep, eyes still closed.

"Bathroom," I murmur, the lie small but necessary. A buffer against this sudden domesticity neither of us planned.

He releases me without argument, rolling into the warm space I've vacated. I pause in the doorway, watching his body settle back into sleep. The hard lines of him softened in dawn light. The ruthless businessman momentarily indistinguishablefrom the boy he must have been before the world taught him to build walls, to guard vulnerabilities, to expect betrayal.