Page 171 of The Rules

Ben didn’t react. Not outwardly. But his mind noted it. Logged it. Filed it away.

She kept speaking, her tone perfectly professional. But then her fingers drifted again. Slower this time. Fingertips tracing the edge of his sleeve like she was smoothing a wrinkle that wasn’t there.

Still, he said nothing.

But his body had already gone still.

The third time?

There was no ambiguity.

Her touch lingered—subtle, but certain. Deliberate.

Ben’s hand shot out, catching her wrist mid-gesture.

Not harsh. But firm. Controlled. Possessive.

Her breath hitched—so quiet most wouldn’t notice. But he did. Felt it in the quickening beneath his fingers. The pulse fluttering against his grip like a secret trying to escape.

He leaned in, voice just above a whisper.

"Careful, Winters," he said, voice low, quiet, threatening. "You don't want to start something you can't handle."

She didn't pull away.

And neither did he.

Then—a cough. Loud. Deliberate.

Across the room, Julian stood grinning like he was hosting dinner theater.

“Should I leave? Or is this one of those office scandals I get to witness in real time?” His voice dripped with amusement, eyes gleaming far too bright with entertainment.

Ben inhaled through his nose, slow and sharp, a quiet tether on the impulse to react. Of course he'd make a spectacle of this. He always did.

Kath smirked, pulling back slow. Controlled. Like she was still winning.

“Maybe you shut the fuck up,” she shot back.

The way they sparred made something tighten in Ben’s chest. Too familiar. Too easy. Like they’d found a rhythm behind his back.

Julian arched a brow and leaned against the table’s edge, clearly settling in.

“You know,” he said, grinning wider, “if I were directing this… I’d tell you two to slow it down.”

Ben exhaled sharply through his nose. The satisfaction radiating off his brother was almost tangible, needling into every nerve.

Pacing now, Julian’s voice turned lilting, theatrical. “Stretch out the tension. Let the audience suffer. Near-kiss. Misunderstanding. A tragic backstory montage with rain and violins...”

Each word scraped. This wasn’t a game. Not to Ben. But to Julian? It was the best seat in the house.

A lazy gesture followed, motioning between them.

“The brooding lead. The defiant heroine. The inevitable collision. It practically writes itself.”

Ben’s eyes flicked up—cold, hard, unamused.

“Julian—” Ben’s voice dipped, steady and cold, with just enough bite to turn heads. A warning in the shape of a name.