Chapter 2

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

The house was quiet, Dad’s snores rumbling faintly down the hall. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, sheets tangled around my legs, every nerve in my body still humming.

I told myself it was exhaustion, jet lag, the strangeness of being home after so long. But the truth whispered back in the dark: it wasn’t that.

It was him.

Marcus.

The way his eyes had lingered. The way his voice had dipped when he leaned close. The warmth of his hand brushing mine — something so small, but it had lit me on fire.

I pressed a hand over my racing heart, shutting my eyes. I shouldn’t feel like this. Not about him. Not about my father’s best friend.

He was nearly twice my age. Older. Dangerous. Completely off-limits.

So why did the thought of him make me shiver?

I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow, but it didn’t help. Every detail replayed in my head — the stubble on his jaw, the faint silver in his hair, the sharp lines of his suit straining across his chest. He wasn’t just a man. He was power, control, the kind of man women whispered about but never dared to touch.

And yet, tonight, he’d looked at me like he wanted to.

Heat coiled low in my belly. My breath quickened.

Stop it, I begged myself. You can’t. You won’t.

But the harder I tried not to think about him, the stronger he filled every thought. The way his sleeve had brushed against mine. The scent of his cologne that still clung faintly to me.

God, I was in trouble.

⸻

A floorboard creaked outside my door. My eyes flew open, heart pounding.

For one breathless second, I thought it might be him.

I imagined the door easing open, his tall frame filling the doorway, his gaze dark with the same forbidden hunger that kept me awake.

The thought made me tremble.

But the footsteps passed, fading down the stairs. Probably Dad, grabbing water from the kitchen.

I exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to my lips. What was wrong with me?

And worse — what if Marcus did feel the same?

Would I even have the strength to stop him?

⸻

By morning, I hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours. The mirror showed flushed cheeks and wide, restless eyes. I looked like I’d done something sinful.

In a way, I had.

Because I couldn’t deny it anymore.

The little girl he once knew was gone. And the woman lying awake last night…

She wanted him.

And that was the most dangerous secret of all.

The smell of coffee and bacon pulled me from my room the next morning. My body felt heavy from lack of sleep, my head foggy, but my nerves were sharp, humming with the memory of last night.

I told myself he wouldn’t be here. He had a billion-dollar empire to run, meetings stacked from dawn till dusk. He wouldn’t waste time at our kitchen table.

But when I stepped into the doorway, there he was.

Marcus Hale.

Sitting like he belonged, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he cradled a mug in one big hand. He looked maddeningly relaxed, like he owned the place, like he hadn’t been the reason I’d tossed and turned half the night.

His eyes lifted the second he felt me.

And my stomach dropped.

Because the way he looked at me wasn’t casual. It wasn’t polite. It was sharp, direct, piercing straight through the flimsy shield I tried to hold up.

I froze. Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I prayed Dad wouldn’t notice.

“Morning, kiddo!” Dad’s cheerful voice broke the silence as he flipped pancakes at the stove. “Your favorite — banana chocolate chip. Marcus came by early. Thought I’d rope him into breakfast.”

“Lucky me,” Marcus murmured.

Only I heard the edge in his voice, the way it lingered, heavy and unspoken.

I slipped into a chair across from him, my hands trembling as I reached for a glass of juice. He didn’t look away. His gaze stayed locked on me, steady, unreadable, burning in ways that made it hard to breathe.

God, why did it feel like he could see everything I’d thought about him last night?

⸻

Dad sat down with a plate piled high, completely oblivious. He launched into a story about some neighbor’s dog and how it had chewed up his newspaper. Marcus nodded occasionally, but his attention never wavered from me.

Every time I lifted my fork, I felt it. Every shift in my seat, every flick of my eyes, he was there. Watching.

Finally, when Dad got up to refill his coffee, Marcus leaned in just slightly, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear.

“You didn’t sleep.”

My heart jumped. “What?”

His mouth curved, the barest hint of a knowing smile. “You look tired.”

I swallowed hard, fumbling for words. “I—I had a lot on my mind.”

“Mm.” His gaze dragged slowly over my face, pausing at my mouth before returning to my eyes. “I know the feeling.”

Heat flushed through me so fast I had to grip my fork to keep steady.

This was wrong. Completely, utterly wrong.

And yet, the way he said it made me wonder if he’d been just as restless as I was.

Dad came back, dropping into his chair, oblivious to the storm brewing inches away. “So, Marcus, you still heading to New York this weekend?”

Marcus’s eyes flicked to me before he answered. “Plans changed. I’ll be around a little longer.”

My pulse stuttered.

Around longer.

I forced myself to look at my plate, stabbing at pancakes I couldn’t taste. If he stayed, if I kept seeing him like this — watching me, pulling me closer with every look — how long before something snapped?

⸻

When breakfast was over, I tried to escape upstairs, but Marcus moved faster. One second I was in the hall, the next his hand brushed my wrist, stopping me.

The contact was brief, but it sent a jolt racing up my arm.

“Later,” he said, low, quiet, meant only for me.

I stared up at him, throat dry. “Later… what?”

But before he could answer, Dad appeared in the doorway, carrying dishes. Marcus stepped back smoothly, mask slipping over his face again.

“Nothing,” he said easily. “We’ll catch up later, won’t we?”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving me with a heart pounding so hard it hurt.