Page 16

Steven glances up, his brows furrowing as if in pain, then leans over the microphone even more, shifting his stance and bending his body down, his torso swaying to the music.

His hands flex and grip the mic tightly, the muscles in his forearm rippling, and he takes in a heavy inhale.

His molten eyes, blazing like the brightest fire, look in our direction and pause when his gaze lands on mine.

Pinning me with his intoxicating stare, he belts out the crescendo, his deep voice heavy with agony, threaded with pain, “You’re the stars in my skies, the reason I breathe at night, how will I live now that you’re not by my side?”

His words barrel through my defenses like a battering ram and wrap around my heart in a crushing embrace. His voice echoes and vibrates inside me and suddenly, I understand why women faint at concerts, and why people can fall in love with a tender voice on the radio.

Because the voice, the language of our soul, reveals the truth in every husky rasp, every ragged edge, and every smooth vibration.

Under the guise of a heart-wrenching melody and devastating lyrics, the voice inevitably reveals part of your hidden soul, breathing life and meaning into the musical piece.

And it is in his voice, I hear the strains of emptiness and longing inside him.

I find myself leaning forward, an unfamiliar ache forming in my chest as I hear the sorrow and the heartbreak in the lyrics, and see the stark loneliness in his gaze, which he tries to hide from everyone, but something I can see as clear as day.

My eyes burn, my insides turning into a heated mush, and I can’t do anything other than curl my arms tightly around the jacket which smells like him, wishing I could somehow rush up the stage to wrap him in a hug because I know this man hasn’t had someone to hold him, to silently be with him, to whisper in his ears, “Everything will be okay,” in a long, long time.

“Baby, don’t leave me in my personal version of hell, take me with you, even if it’s not in this world but beyond…” His eyes never leave my face as he croons the lyrics which had teenage girls weeping when the song was first released, and I blink, feeling a wetness misting my vision.

It’s as if the tables between us have disappeared, the crowds have disintegrated, and only the two of us remain in this space, shields down, armor stripped and on the floor in scattered pieces.

It’s as if I could feel the thread between us glimmering so bright it’s almost visible and tangible.

I swallow the lump in my throat as I sit there, captivated by my friend, someone I’ve only recently met, and yet, something inside me recognized him from the start as someone I’ve known for a long time .

“Take me with you to the beyond…because you’re the stars in my skies,” he finishes, his voice hoarse, his body slowly straightening back up and releasing the microphone, but his eyes never leave mine.

He pants, his chest heaving with exertion, like he ran several miles to be here, to stand before us, to serenade us, and he swallows, his corded throat rippling from the motion as the music slowly fades into silence.

The room is still. Quiet. An eerie calm cloaking the tables.

I hear someone clearing their throat. The crisp rattling of ice cubes in a glass.

The room is held captive, just like me, and we don’t want to wake up from the spell.

Steven huffs out a deep breath and bends toward the microphone again.

“Well, don’t everyone clap at once. And you guys,” he points to us, “don’t have too much fun.

I still expect you at work tomorrow at eight a.m. sharp.

” He flashes a sardonic smirk, the spark not quite reaching his eyes, and I see a faint flush crawling up his neck.

The room erupts into cheers and laughter, and Theo stands and hollers, “Go, Bossman!” I follow suit, my mind still dazed, my body still reeling like it’s suspended in an alternate dimension where I’m overloaded with sensations and everything feels too much—too hot, too heavy, too intense.

My hands clap automatically, but I can’t seem to bring myself to say or do anything when I watch him saunter over to our table, the usual chill befalling his features once more.

His hair is disheveled, his tie enticingly loosened, and at the closer distance, I can see a five o’clock shadow peppering his strong jawline.

He looks like someone who has dressed in haste after a rough tumble between the sheets.

My eyes sweep to his muscular neck, to the way he languidly moves his body toward us, his presence teeming with restrained power, and my core involuntarily clenches.

Biological reactions, that’s all.

Swallowing, I stare at him as he approaches us and leans over the table toward me, his arm outstretched, palm open .

I freeze, my brain still not functioning.

A glint reappears in those hazel eyes, and he unleashes a devastating half grin as if he knows what I’m thinking.

“My jacket, Grace,” he murmurs.

Still rendered speechless, I hand over the jacket that has quite a few new wrinkles in it from my death grip.

The music resumes from the speakers and conversations and awful singing carry on like the world hasn’t been transformed in the last few minutes like mine has.

He pauses, his head dipped slightly toward mine, even though there is at least half a foot separating us, and whispers, “Checkmate. And you’re mine.”

I gasp, my nipples pebbling at the rough timbre of his voice, the imagined edge of possessiveness in his words. He pulls away, his lips twisted in an infinitesimal smile, his searing gaze capturing mine once more before he turns away, walks toward his friends, and exits the building.

My day is his. That’s what he said. I must have misheard.

My core throbs and my panties are damp. My skin is hot, and I feel oddly out of breath.

“Shit, that was intense. What was that about? What did he say to you when you gave him back the jacket, Grace?” Bradley asks from the corner of the booth.

Glancing up, I find everyone staring at me and I take a seat and let out a shaky chuckle, hoping I sound halfway convincing. Thank God it’s dark in here and they can’t see my face.

“He t-told me this doesn’t count as overtime, to make sure I don’t bill those hours.”

Bradley and Chuck snort, shaking their heads in unison. “The boss is a jackass, no doubt.”

Amber types rapidly in her phone, a mad grin on her face, resembling a deranged hyena. “I’m sending this video to the others. I think it’s one of those things where no one will believe me unless they see it themselves. ”

I laugh half-heartedly, sink back into my seat, and release a deep exhale. Turning to Jamie, I find her squinting at me, her brows furrowed, her head cocked to the side.

Quickly, I look away, like I was caught with my hand in the cookie jar, even though nothing happened in the last few minutes.

Absolutely nothing.

It’s the alcohol and the music. The environment and my subconscious acting up.

It’s nothing.

The binds around my chest tighten and I swallow the lump in my throat.