Chapter six

Saturday morning came too quickly.

Shayla stood in her small kitchen, watching Ayven eat the breakfast she'd prepared—scrambled eggs, toast, and sliced strawberries arranged the way he liked. He looked better this morning, the color back in his cheeks, his energy returning in the form of constant chatter about the cartoon he'd watched before bed.

"Momma, can we go to the park later?" he asked between bites.

"We'll see, baby. Momma has to work for a few hours first." She slid his medication across the table—two pills, one for the allergies, one a precaution the doctor had prescribed. "Take these for me."

Ayven made a face but obediently swallowed them with orange juice. "I'm fine now, Momma. You don't have to worry so much."

"I always worry. That's my job." She pressed a kiss to the top of his head, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo. "Ruby's going to stay with you while I'm gone, okay?"

"Okay!" His face lit up. Ruby days were always the best days in Ayven's book.

Shayla glanced at the clock. 9:15 AM. The car Grayson had mentioned in his email would be arriving in fifteen minutes.

Not that she had any intention of getting in it.

She'd dressed deliberately casual today—dark jeans that fit well but weren't dressy, a plain white t-shirt that was comfortable and completely unremarkable. Her curly hair was pulled into a simple ponytail, no heat styling, no fuss. And makeup? She hadn't even bothered. This wasn't a social visit. This was work. Nothing more.

Still, when she caught her reflection in the hallway mirror on her way to grab her bag, she had to admit she looked... good. Natural. The kind of effortless beauty that didn't need enhancement.

She hated that she'd even thought about it.

Ruby arrived at 9:20, letting herself in with the spare key Shayla had given her years ago.

"Rubbeees!" Ayven launched himself at her from the couch.

"Big boy!" Ruby caught him easily, spinning him around. "Ready for our day of mischief?"

"Always!"

Shayla grabbed her purse and jacket, pausing at the door. "Thanks for this, Rubes."

"You know I've got him." Ruby's expression shifted, concern flickering in her eyes. "You sure you're okay going there? To his house?"

"I'm fine. It's just work."

"Shayla—"

"I'm fine," she repeated, firmer this time. "I'll be back by three at the latest."

Ruby didn't look convinced, but she nodded. "Call me if you need me. I mean it."

"I will."

Shayla stepped out into the cool morning air, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

---

She walked to the end of her street, her shoes clicking against the pavement, and stopped when she spotted it.

A sleek black town car, parked exactly where she'd expected it to be. The driver stood beside it, professional in a dark suit, holding the back door open like she was some kind of VIP.

Shayla's jaw tightened.

Absolutely not.

She pulled out her phone and opened a rideshare app, booking a ride to the address Grayson had sent. The confirmation came through within seconds—her driver would arrive in four minutes.

She stood there on the corner, deliberately ignoring the town car, scrolling through her phone like she had all the time in the world.

The driver shifted uncomfortably. "Ms. Hale? Mr. Cross sent me to—"

"I'm aware," Shayla said without looking up. "Thank you, but I won't be needing the ride."

"But ma'am, Mr. Cross specifically—"

"I said no. Thank you."

Her rideshare pulled up—a beat-up Honda with a dent in the passenger door—and Shayla climbed into the back seat without a backward glance.

As they pulled away, she caught a glimpse of the driver in the town car, phone already to his ear, no doubt calling Grayson to report that she'd refused.

Good.

Let him know she wasn't going to be controlled. Not by him. Not by anyone.

---

The drive took twenty-five minutes, winding through neighborhoods that grew progressively more affluent until they reached an area where the houses weren't houses at all—they were estates.

Of course Grayson lived here.

The rideshare driver pulled up to a massive iron gate, looking uncertain. "Uh, I think this is it?"

Shayla checked the address on her phone. "This is it. Thank you."

She climbed out, tipped him through the app, and approached the gate.

A security guard stepped out of the small booth beside it, professional but cautious. "Name?"

"Shayla Hale. I'm here to see Mr. Cross."

He checked his tablet, nodded, and pressed a button. The gate swung open with a low mechanical hum.

"Straight up the drive, ma'am. He's expecting you."

Shayla walked through, her heart rate picking up despite her best efforts to stay calm.

The driveway was long, lined with perfectly manicured hedges and trees that looked like they'd been placed by a landscape artist. The mansion at the end of it was exactly what she'd expected—massive, modern, all glass and steel and sharp angles that screamed wealth.

She didn't let herself look too closely at the details. The fountain in the circular drive. The expensive cars parked near the entrance. The way the sunlight reflected off windows that probably cost more than her entire year's salary.

It was none of her business.

This was just work.

She climbed the front steps and rang the doorbell, clasping her hands in front of her to keep them from shaking.

Footsteps approached from inside. The door swung open.

And there he was.

Grayson Cross, looking unfairly attractive in dark jeans and a fitted gray henley that clung to his shoulders in ways that should be illegal. His hair was slightly mussed, like he'd run his hands through it, and he wasn't wearing shoes—just socks, which made him seem almost... human.

Shayla's heart did that stupid thing again, that flutter she'd spent seven years trying to kill.

She cursed herself inwardly.

"Shayla." His voice was warm, surprised. "You're here."

"I'm on time, actually. Ten o'clock, as requested." She kept her tone professional, cool. "Should we get started?"

His expression shifted, something unreadable passing across his face. "Would you like anything while you work? Coffee? Water? I have—"

"No, sir." She cut him off. "And it's Ms. Hale."

She saw it—the way his jaw tightened, the flash of frustration in his eyes. And she didn't care.

Actually, she rolled her eyes. Right there in front of him. Deliberately.

Let him see exactly how little his familiarity meant to her.

"And one more thing, Mr. Cross." She stepped inside, not waiting for an invitation, her voice dropping into something sharper. "I don't know how you got my home address, and honestly? I don't want to think about it. But I would really appreciate it if you stayed out of my personal life. I don't need your free rides or your... concern."

"Shayla, if you'd just let me explain—"

"It's Ms. Hale, you motherfucking arsehole."

The words came out before she could stop them, sharp and venomous, cutting through the expensive silence of his foyer like a blade.

Grayson froze, his eyes widening slightly.

And for half a second, Shayla felt a flicker of satisfaction at the shock on his face.

Then professionalism kicked back in.

"Sorry." She wasn't. "Not sorry. Sir, we should get started. I have something more important to do at home."

She didn't miss the way his expression shuttered, the way his shoulders tensed.

Good.

Let him know exactly where he stood.

---

Grayson stared at her for a long moment, jaw working like he was biting back a dozen responses, before finally nodding.

"Follow me."

He led her through the mansion—and God, it was a mansion, all high ceilings and modern art and furniture that looked like it belonged in a magazine. Shayla kept her eyes forward, refusing to gawk, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her impressed.

They reached his home office at the end of a long hallway. The room was massive, nearly as large as his office at the company, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a manicured garden and a desk that could comfortably seat six people.

"Everything you need should be here." Grayson gestured to the desk, where files and documents were already organized. "The contracts we're reviewing, the financial reports, projections for the next quarter. If you need anything—"

"I'll manage." Shayla set her bag down and pulled out her laptop, her movements efficient, practiced. "Let's start with the Westfield merger."

"Right." Grayson moved to the opposite side of the desk, settling into his chair. "The acquisition terms need to be finalized by Monday, so—"

"I've already drafted the revised terms based on the board meeting notes from Thursday. I'll pull them up now."

She opened her laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard, pulling up documents and spreadsheets with the kind of efficiency that came from a week of learning exactly how he worked, what he needed, how to anticipate his requests before he made them.

If Grayson was surprised by her preparedness, he didn't show it.

They worked in tense silence, the only sounds the clicking of keys and the occasional rustle of paper. Shayla answered his questions with clipped professionalism, provided information when asked, offered suggestions when relevant.

But the moment he veered into anything personal—"How was your emergency yesterday?" or "You look tired, did you sleep alright?"—she shut him down immediately.

"That's personal, Mr. Cross."

"None of your concern, sir."

"Can we focus on the work, please?"

It was obvious she wasn't having any of it.

Every boundary was reinforced. Every wall rebuilt the second he tried to chip at it.

And Grayson, to his credit, stopped trying after the fourth rejection.

---

The hours passed with excruciating slowness.

Shayla kept her eyes on her screen, her posture perfect, her expression blank. Professional. Untouchable.

But inside, she was screaming.

Being here—in his space, surrounded by his things, breathing the same air—was torture. Every glance at him reminded her of college, of late nights studying together, of the way he used to make her laugh until her sides hurt.

Of the way she'd trusted him completely.

And the way he'd destroyed that trust without a second thought.

By 1:45 PM, they'd finished everything on the agenda. Contracts reviewed, emails drafted, reports compiled.

"I think that's everything," Grayson said, leaning back in his chair. "Unless there's something else—"

"No. We're done." Shayla was already closing her laptop, packing up her things with swift efficiency. "I'll have the finalized documents sent to your email by tonight."

"Shayla, wait—"

"Ms. Hale."

"Ms. Hale." He stood, moving around the desk like he was going to approach her. "Can we talk? Just for a minute. About—"

"No." She shouldered her bag, her expression hard. "There's nothing to talk about, Mr. Cross. Our relationship is professional. That's all it will ever be."

"I know you hate me—"

"I don't hate you." The words came out flat, emotionless. "I don't feel anything about you at all. You're my boss. That's it."

The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but she delivered it perfectly.

Grayson flinched like she'd struck him.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get home."

She turned toward the door, already pulling out her phone to request another rideshare.

"It's raining," Grayson said behind her. "Let me drive you. Or at least wait until it stops—"

Shayla glanced toward the windows. Sure enough, rain was coming down in sheets, the kind of heavy downpour that soaked you in seconds.

"I'll be fine."

"Shayla, you'll get drenched—"

"Ms. Hale. And I said I'll be fine."

She walked out of his office, through the hallways, toward the front door.

Grayson followed, his voice taking on an edge of desperation. "At least let me call you a car. The one from this morning is still available—"

"I don't want your car."

"Then let me drive you myself—"

"No."

She reached the front door and pulled it open. The rain hit her immediately, cold and relentless, but she didn't care.

"Shayla, please—"

She stepped out into the storm without looking back.

---

The rain was freezing.

Within seconds, Shayla was soaked through, her t-shirt clinging to her skin, her jeans heavy with water. Her hair fell out of its ponytail, curls plastered to her face and neck.

But she kept walking.

Down the driveway. Past the fountain. Toward the gate that was already opening, the security guard staring at her like she'd lost her mind.

Behind her, she heard Grayson shout her name one more time.

She didn't turn around.

Didn't stop.

Didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

By the time she reached the street, her rideshare was pulling up—thank God for small mercies—and she climbed into the back seat, dripping water all over the upholstery.

"Rough day?" the driver asked, eyeing her in the rearview mirror.

"Something like that."

---

Back at the mansion, Grayson stood in the open doorway, watching her car disappear down the street, rain soaking into his socks.

Damn it.

Damn it.

If he remembered correctly—and he did, he remembered everything about her—Shayla wasn't tolerant of cold. Even in college, she'd gotten sick every time she got caught in the rain, spent days with a fever and a cough that worried him endlessly.

She was going to get sick.

And it was his fault.

Again.

He ran a hand through his hair, water dripping down his face, his chest tight with something that felt dangerously close to panic.

She hated him.

Really, truly hated him.

And he had no idea how to fix it.

Or if it could even be fixed at all.

★★★★★

By the time Shayla's rideshare dropped her off at her apartment, she was shivering so violently her teeth were chattering.

The driver had turned the heat on full blast, bless him, but it hadn't been enough. Her clothes were still soaked through, clinging to her skin like ice, and every gust of wind that hit her when she climbed out of the car felt like tiny knives.

She fumbled with her keys, her fingers numb and clumsy, finally managing to unlock the door and stumble inside.

Warmth hit her immediately—Ruby must have turned the heat up—but it did nothing to stop the shaking.

"Momma!" Ayven's voice came from the living room, bright and cheerful. "You're back! Did you—"

He stopped mid-sentence the moment he saw her.

Ruby appeared in the doorway behind him, her expression shifting from casual to alarmed in half a second.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"I'm fine." Shayla's voice came out rough, and she tried to smile, tried to hide the way her whole body was trembling. "Just got caught in the rain."

"Caught in the rain?" Ruby crossed the room in three strides, her hand going to Shayla's forehead. "You're freezing. And soaked. Shay, what were you thinking?"

"I needed to get home." She was already moving toward her bedroom, leaving a trail of water on the floor. "I'll just change and—"

"You'll get in a hot shower right now," Ruby said firmly, following her. "And then you're getting into bed. Ayven, baby, can you grab the extra blankets from the closet?"

"On it!" Ayven was already running down the hallway, his earlier excitement replaced with concern.

Shayla wanted to argue, wanted to say she was fine, that she didn't need to be taken care of. But another violent shiver tore through her, and she just nodded.

"Okay."

---

The hot shower helped. A little.

By the time Shayla emerged, dressed in her warmest pajamas with her hair wrapped in a towel, the worst of the shivering had subsided. But she could already feel it—the telltale scratchiness in her throat, the heaviness in her chest, the way her sinuses were starting to ache.

She was getting sick.

Of course she was.

Ruby had tea waiting for her, along with a pile of blankets on the couch and Ayven hovering nearby with worried eyes.

"You should've waited for the rain to stop, Momma," he said softly, climbing onto the couch beside her once she was settled.

"I know, baby. But Momma was in a hurry to get home to you."

That was partly true. The other part—that she would've rather caught pneumonia than spend another second in Grayson Cross's house—she kept to herself.

"Are you gonna be okay?" Ayven's small hand found hers, squeezing gently.

"I'll be fine. Just a little cold." She kissed the top of his head. "Don't worry about me."

But by Sunday evening, it was clear she was anything but fine.

The cold had settled deep in her chest, bringing with it a cough that rattled her ribs and a fever that left her weak and dizzy. Ruby had taken over completely—cooking, cleaning, taking care of Ayven while Shayla spent most of the day in bed, drifting in and out of feverish sleep.

"You need to call in sick tomorrow," Ruby said Sunday night, perched on the edge of Shayla's bed with a bottle of medicine and a stern expression. "I'm serious, Shay. You look like death."

"I can't." Shayla's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "I've only been there a week. I can't start calling in sick already."

"You're actually sick. That's what sick days are for."

"I'll be fine by tomorrow."

"You won't."

"I will." Shayla forced herself to sit up, ignoring the way the room spun slightly. "I have to be."

Ruby looked like she wanted to argue, but she just sighed and handed over the medicine. "You're the most stubborn person I've ever met, you know that?"

"I learned from the best." Shayla managed a weak smile before downing the medicine and collapsing back against the pillows.

---

Monday morning came too soon.

Shayla's alarm went off at 6:30 AM, and for a moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince her body to move.

Everything hurt. Her throat felt like she'd swallowed glass. Her head was pounding. And the cough—God, the cough was worse, deep and painful and relentless.

But she'd made a commitment.

She dragged herself out of bed, got ready on autopilot, and somehow made it to the office by 7:45 AM.

If anyone noticed she looked like hell, they were polite enough not to mention it.

---

By 9:00 AM, Shayla was preparing Grayson's coffee with shaking hands.

The break room felt too bright, the lights stabbing into her skull. She'd taken more medicine before leaving home, but it hadn't kicked in yet, and every breath was a struggle not to cough.

She made the coffee exactly how he liked it—black, two sugars, the specific blend he preferred—and carried it to his office on a small tray, along with the morning briefing documents.

Professional. Competent. Fine.

She knocked once, heard his "Come in," and entered.

Grayson was already at his desk, sleeves rolled up, focused on his computer screen. He glanced up when she entered, and his expression shifted immediately.

"Good morning, Mr. Cross." Her voice came out rougher than she intended. She set the coffee and documents on his desk with practiced efficiency. "Your nine-thirty meeting has been moved to ten. The client requested the change late Friday. I've updated your calendar and notified everyone involved."

"Shayla—"

"Is there anything else you need, sir?" She was already turning to leave, not wanting to linger, not wanting him to look at her too closely.

"Wait."

She stopped, her hand on the door handle, but didn't turn around.

"You're sick."

It wasn't a question.

"I'm fine, Mr. Cross."

"You're not." His chair scraped against the floor as he stood. "You can barely talk. And you're—Shayla, look at me."

She didn't want to. But professionalism demanded it.

She turned, keeping her expression neutral, meeting his eyes with as much composure as she could muster.

Grayson's jaw tightened, concern flickering across his features. "You got sick. From the rain on Saturday."

"I'm handling it."

"You should be home. Resting."

"I can handle my job, sir." The words came out sharper than intended, defensive. "I don't need—"

She broke off as another cough tore through her chest, harsh and painful. She pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to suppress it, but it kept coming, making her eyes water.

When it finally subsided, she straightened, ignoring the way her vision blurred slightly at the edges.

"I'm fine," she repeated.

"You're not." Grayson was moving around his desk now, crossing the space between them. "Shayla, you need to take a break. Go home. I'll have someone cover—"

"I can handle my job, sir." Her voice was steel, even as her body betrayed her with another violent shiver. "I don't need special treatment."

"This isn't special treatment. You're sick. Anyone would—"

"I said I'm fine."

She turned to leave, her hand reaching for the door handle again, desperate to escape before he saw just how not fine she really was.

But then his hand closed around her wrist.

Not rough. Not demanding.

Gentle. Almost hesitant.

But firm enough to stop her.

"Shayla—"

She froze, staring down at where his hand touched her skin, and felt her entire world tilt.

It was the first time he'd touched her in seven years.

The first time since everything fell apart.

And her body remembered. God, it remembered everything, the warmth of his touch, the way his fingers had once traced patterns on her skin, the way she used to feel safe when he held her.

"Let go of me." Her voice came out barely above a whisper.

"Not until you listen—"

"Let. Go."

But Grayson didn't let go.

His grip remained gentle but unyielding, his blue eyes searching her face with an intensity that made her chest ache.

"You're going to make yourself worse," he said quietly. "Please. Just take the day. Go home. Rest."

"Why do you care?" The question slipped out before she could stop it, raw and painful. "Why do you care if I'm sick?"

Something shifted in his expression. Something vulnerable and desperate and entirely too real.

"Because I—"

The words hung in the air between them, unfinished, loaded with seven years of history and pain and everything they'd never said.

And Shayla couldn't breathe.

She Couldn't think.

Could only feel his hand on her wrist and the weight of whatever he'd been about to say pressing against her chest like a physical thing.

"Mr. Cross," she said, her voice shaking now, her professional mask cracking at the edges. "Let go of me. Please."

For a long moment, he didn't move.