Chapter 4

Penelope Monroe

I curled up on my couch, hugging Ethan's blazer tighter around me, my fingers gripping the expensive fabric like it was some kind of security blanket. The scent of him, rich cedar, a hint of leather, something warm and masculine: wrapped around me, filling my senses, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

I took another sip of wine, exhaling heavily.

What the hell am I doing?

I should have taken this thing off the second I got home. I should have tossed it on the chair and forgotten about it. But instead, here I was wrapped up in him, inhaling him like some love-struck idiot.

I groaned, rubbing my face. I am too old for this. I wasn't some teenager pining over my first crush. And yet, the way Ethan had touched me earlier, the way his hands had lingered, the way his eyes had darkened when my dress strap had snapped,

I let out another frustrated groan.

This was going to be a problem.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table, snapping me out of my spiralling thoughts. I grabbed it, squinting at the screen.

Ethan: Serena Livingstone's out. Who's next?

My eyes widened.

What the hell?

I sat up straighter, re-reading the text. He had been so calculated, so methodical with her, treating the entire evening like a damn business deal. I was sure she checked all his stupid little boxes.

So what changed?

I didn't even hesitate before calling him. He wouldn't pick up. He never picked up.

But then, he did.

"What?" he answered lazily, his deep voice rough, like he had just run his hand through his hair in frustration.

"What?" I echoed back, irritation bubbling in my chest. "That's all you have to say? You just cut off one of the best prospects I found you, and all I get is what?"

"I have my reasons," he said, voice maddeningly composed. "She doesn't make the cut."

"What the hell does that even mean?" I snapped. "Who does make the cut then? Who's next, Mr. Rutherford?"

There was a pause. Then, that infuriating, smug tone. "That's your job to figure out, Ms. Monroe."

"Oh, come on. I deserve to know why. I worked hard on this. Why not her?"

Truthfully, I wanted him to choose her. I needed him to choose her. Because the longer this dragged on, the harder it was going to be for me to ignore the way my body responded to him, the way I felt when he touched me, the way he looked at me like he was fighting something dangerous inside himself.

The faster he had a girl, the better.

He exhaled through the phone. "Are you drunk?"

I rolled my eyes, pouring myself another glass. "This isn't work time. I can do whatever I want."

"And yet, here you are. Calling me."

His voice was deeper now, rougher.

I swallowed.

"And how do you know?" I countered, trying to keep my voice steady.

A low chuckle. "You talk different sober, Ms. Monroe."

I shivered.

The way he said my name, it was slow, teasing, calculated. Like he enjoyed getting under my skin, like he loved knowing he was inside my head even when I wanted to pretend otherwise.

I cleared my throat. "Can you just tell me what went wrong?"

"Tomorrow. Ten a.m. at work."

I groaned, flopping back against the couch. "Ugh, come on—"

"Make it eleven," he cut in smoothly. "You sound like you're going to be hungover."

And then, he hung up.

I blinked at my phone, my jaw tightening as I glared at the screen.

"Asshole."

But the worst part?

The worst part wasn't the fact that he had been a smug bastard about it.

It wasn't even the fact that I had called him while wrapped up in his blazer like some lovesick fool.

It was the fact that, even as I sat there hating him, I knew I was already counting down the hours until I would see him again.

11:00 AM

I swallowed down the aspirin with a sip of water, standing outside Ethan's office, waiting for my turn. My fingers drummed against my clutch as I shifted on my heels, trying to ignore the way my pulse spiked just at the thought of seeing him again.

He had been haunting my thoughts all night, lingering in the back of my mind like a ghost that refused to be exorcised.

"Send Ms. Monroe in and hold all my calls until she comes out," Ethan's smooth, authoritative voice floated through the door.

His assistant smiled knowingly at me, leading me in before she quietly excused herself, shutting the door behind her.

The second we were alone, the air thickened.

He didn't gesture for me to sit. He didn't greet me. He simply leaned against his desk, his sharp eyes locking onto mine as silence stretched between us, charged and unspoken.

I didn't move either. I didn't look away.

His gaze flickered low, slow, deliberately dragging down the length of my body before snapping back up, pausing at my chest for a fraction of a second too long.

My skin burned.

He was thinking about last night.

I knew it. And the fact that I knew it made my stomach tighten.

"Ms. Monroe," he finally broke the silence, his voice smooth but firm. "I did a deeper dive on Ms. Livingstone and found out she's had a man in her life, on and off, for five years."

I exhaled slowly, trying to steady myself under his penetrating gaze.

"And what would you infer from that?" He arched a brow, waiting.

I swallowed. "That... he might come back."

His lips curled slightly, his satisfaction evident. "And?"

The way he was testing me, the way he spoke, made my stomach coil in something that wasn't just frustration.

"And... she isn't sure about what she wants," I admitted, voice quieter now.

"And?"

I blinked, my brain momentarily short-circuiting. "And... I don't know."

He tilted his head slightly, watching me with something close to amusement. "That she might not know how to be in a relationship without breaking it off over and over again," he finished, voice deep and slow, letting the words sink in.

I inhaled sharply. I hated when he talked to me like I was an idiot. But I also couldn't argue with the logic.

"You should talk to her about it," I countered, lifting my chin. "Ask her what went wrong and why this time is different. That's why emotions are important to understand the situation properly."

"Or," he said getting up, stepping closer, voice dropping to a near whisper, "I look at this practically and save my time."

I sucked in a sharp breath.

He was too close now, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the intoxicating mix of cedar and leather and something undeniably him.

"Do you think it's normal for a couple to break up so many times?" he asked, voice low, watching me like he was studying my every reaction.

I shook my head, unable to find my voice.

"Then please," he murmured, his voice dark and edged with impatience, "get on with your job now that I've given you the reason."

"Please." I muttered under my breath, though I wasn't sure who I was pleading with him or myself.

The truth was, I was being selfish. I despised the fact that my motivation wasn't just about matchmaking or ensuring a perfect union, it was about money. The loans were crushing me, weighing down on me like a constant shadow, and no matter how much I tried to ignore it, I couldn't. I needed this.

A Livingstone-Rutherford wedding would be a goldmine for me, not just because of the prestige but because it meant financial stability. Organizing an event of that scale while successfully finding Ethan a wife? That kind of success would change everything.

But Ethan? He wasn't making this easy. At this rate, he was never going to find a wife.

And since he had made it painfully clear that romance wasn't a priority, Serena was perfect.

She didn't want love either, just a logical arrangement. She was practical, elegant, and admired Ethan for what he offered rather than who he was.

Which, honestly, was fitting.

Because what else was there to like about this arrogant asshole?

She was perfect for him.

Now, I just had to make sure he gave her a real shot.

"Please don't write her off just yet," I urged, forcing my voice to stay calm. "Let's keep looking at other prospects, but don't dismiss Serena too quickly. Tomorrow, there's a luncheon. Your second prospect and her family will be there. We'll meet more women, keep our options open but please, give Serena another chance. I just... I have a feeling this is meant to be."

His gaze locked onto mine, something flickering in his expression. For a moment, he looked almost lost, as if he were considering something deeper.

Then, his eyes dipped to my lips.

It was barely a second. A fraction of a moment.

But it was enough.

Had I imagined it?

"Fine," he said finally, exhaling as if this entire conversation was exhausting him. "But I don't see any potential there. And considering my entire career is built on spotting potential and investing in it, I think you can trust my judgment."

I clenched my jaw, barely resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

"I'm sure you do well when it comes to business," I shot back, lifting my chin. "But when it comes to people? I'd like you to give me a chance to prove you wrong."

Before he could respond, I turned and rushed out of his office, determined to leave before he could get the last word.

But as I moved, I could feel it.

His gaze.

Dragging over me, slow and deliberate.

He was checking me out, shamelessly.

I ignored the way my pulse kicked up, ignored the way my skin heated under his stare, and walked faster.

Because Ethan Rutherford was going to be the death of me.