CHAPTER 18: TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT

The morning after I saw Alexander cry, I found it difficult to look him in the eyes.

Not because I felt sorry for him, but because I had seen something he had spent years hiding. And now, whenever he looked at me, I wondered whether he remembered that I had seen it too.

At breakfast, he was already seated at the dining table, reading something on his tablet.

“Good morning,” I said.

He looked up.

“Good morning.”

His voice was as calm as ever, but something about his expression seemed softer.

I sat opposite him.

A cup of tea was waiting beside my plate.

I glanced at it, then at him.

“Did you ask them to make this?”

“You don't drink coffee.”

I looked down at the cup.

It was such a small thing, yet I found myself smiling.

“Thank you.”

He returned his attention to the tablet.

“Don't make it a big deal.”

“I wasn't planning to.”

For a few minutes, we ate quietly.

Then he looked at me again.

“Did you sleep?”

“Eventually. You?”

“Enough.”

I knew that wasn't true, but I didn't challenge him.

Instead, I asked, “Are you going to the office today?”

“Later. Why?”

“I wanted to look at some furniture catalogues for my college portfolio. Victoria said there's a study room I could use.”

“Use the library. There's more space.”

“I don't want to disturb anyone.”

“You won't.”

I nodded, surprised by how easily he had agreed.

By late afternoon, the rain had stopped, leaving the garden wet and shining beneath the pale sunlight.

I was in the library, spreading furniture catalogues across a large table. I had started sketching ideas for a small apartment living room when Alexander entered.

He removed his jacket and placed it over a chair.

“What are you working on?”

I looked up.

“A living room design. Something simple, warm, and affordable.”

He studied the papers.

“Why affordable?”

“Because not everyone can buy expensive furniture. A beautiful room shouldn't require a fortune.”

He picked up one of my sketches.

“You've thought about the lighting.”

“Natural light makes a difference. So does the colour of the walls.”

He examined the drawing for another moment.

“It's good.”

I blinked.

“Was that a compliment?”

“Don't get used to it.”

I laughed.

He placed the sketch back on the table.

“Have you considered designing spaces for the company?”

I looked at him.

“Blackwood International?”

“We own several buildings. Hotels, offices, residential properties. We occasionally renovate them.”

“You're offering me work?”

“I'm suggesting an opportunity. You can decide whether you're interested.”

I looked at the drawing.

For a moment, I imagined myself walking into a room I had designed, knowing that every detail had come from my own ideas.

“I'd like that,” I admitted.

“Then we'll discuss it when you're ready.”

He pulled out a chair and sat across from me.

I continued sketching while he answered emails. It was strange sharing a room with him without arguing or worrying about what he might ask next.

Sometimes I caught him looking at my work.

Sometimes he caught me looking at him.

Neither of us mentioned it.

The problem started when I reached for a heavy box of sample tiles on the upper shelf.

I had been told the samples were stored in the library, and I wanted to compare their colours with the sketches.

I pulled the box toward me.

It shifted suddenly.

“Careful!”

Before I could move, the box tipped forward.

Alexander crossed the room in two quick steps and caught it with one hand. His other arm came around my waist, pulling me away from the shelf.

The box landed against his forearm before he lowered it to the floor.

For a second, I couldn't move.

His hand was still resting against my waist.

I could feel the warmth of his fingers through my clothes.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He looked at the shelf, then back at me.

“You should have asked someone to get it down.”

“I thought I could manage.”

“You could have been injured.”

“But I wasn't.”

His expression remained serious.

“That doesn't make it sensible.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Are you going to turn a falling box into another rule?”

He released my waist immediately.

“No.”

I stepped back, suddenly aware of how close we had been.

“Thank you for catching it.”

He nodded.

“Try not to make a habit of nearly getting yourself hurt.”

“I'll do my best.”

He bent down to inspect the box. A small cut had appeared across the back of his hand, probably from the edge of the wooden shelf.

“You're bleeding.”

He glanced at it.

“It's nothing.”

I reached for a clean tissue on the table.

“Give me your hand.”

He looked at me.

“Amelia—”

“It's a small cut. Stop arguing.”

For a moment, I thought he would refuse.

Then he held out his hand.

I gently wiped away the blood.

His fingers were warm beneath mine. I tried to concentrate on the tiny cut, but I could feel his eyes resting on my face.

“You don't have to do this,” he said.

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

I looked up.

“Because you're hurt.”

Something changed in his expression.

It was the same question he had asked me the night he returned with a cut above his eyebrow.

Why did you help me?

Perhaps he was finally beginning to understand that not every act of kindness came with a price.

I placed a small plaster over the cut.

“There. You'll survive.”

He looked at his hand.

“Thank you.”

It was such an ordinary sentence, but from Alexander, it sounded almost unfamiliar.

I smiled.

“You're welcome.”

Then I remembered something.

“By the way, I don't want you thinking I need you to rescue me every time something happens.”

His eyes lifted.

“I don't.”

“I mean it. I appreciate your help, but I want to be able to stand on my own.”

“I know you do.”

“I don't want to become dependent on you.”

He studied me.

“Is that what you think I want?”

“I don't know what you want, Alexander. That's the problem.”

He didn't answer.

Instead, he reached for the tissue I had used and placed it aside.

“You're not as easy to understand as you think,” he said.

I gave a small laugh.

“That's funny coming from you.”

For the first time that afternoon, he smiled.

It was brief, but it was real.

And I found myself wishing he would do it again.

Later, we stood near the library windows, looking out at the garden.

The sky had darkened, and the first drops of rain were beginning to fall again.

“You seemed happier today,” Alexander said.

“I was.”

“Because of the college?”

“Partly. I liked having something to work toward.”

He nodded.

“You should have that.”

I turned toward him.

“Do you always make decisions about people's lives?”

“Only when they refuse to make sensible ones.”

I laughed softly.

He looked at me for a long moment.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you staring?”

“I'm trying to understand something.”

“What?”

He stepped closer.

“Why you make this house feel different.”

My smile faded.

I didn't know what to say.

The space between us seemed to shrink, even though neither of us moved much.

“Alexander,” I whispered.

He lifted one hand, hesitated, then gently moved a loose strand of hair away from my face.

His fingers brushed my cheek.

I stopped breathing.

His eyes moved over my face, lingering on my lips before returning to my eyes.

I knew I should step away.

I knew we had started this arrangement with signatures, payments, and conditions.

But for one dangerous moment, I didn't want to move.

He leaned closer.

Slowly.

His expression had lost its usual confidence. There was uncertainty in his eyes, as though he was fighting with himself.

I could feel his breath against my face.

Then a phone rang.

The sound broke the silence.

Alexander stepped back immediately.

He looked almost angry with himself as he pulled his phone from his pocket.

“Victoria,” he answered.

I turned toward the window, trying to steady my breathing.

His voice became businesslike within seconds.

“What happened?”

A pause.

“When?”

Another pause.

His expression hardened.

“Don't touch anything. I'm coming.”

He ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Someone has accessed a restricted archive at the company.”

My stomach tightened.

“Which archive?”

He looked at me.

“The records connected to my father's death.”

I felt the warmth of the moment disappear.

“Alexander—”

“Stay here. Security will remain with you.”

He picked up his jacket.

Then he stopped at the doorway and looked back at me.

For a moment, neither of us mentioned what had almost happened.

But I knew he remembered.

And I knew I did too.

He had almost kissed me.

The man who had warned me never to mistake kindness for affection had nearly crossed a line neither of us had agreed to cross.

“Amelia,” he said quietly.

“Yes?”

His eyes held mine.

“Forget what happened just now.”

I forced myself to nod.

“Of course.”

But when he left, I knew I wouldn't forget it.

And judging by the way he had looked at me before walking away, I suspected he wouldn't either.