Page 17 of His Vow

My office door swung open.

She filled the doorway. Linen top with the sleeves shoved to her elbows, wide trousers, the mismatched earrings catching the light. A streak of cerulean blue paint across her left thumb — she hadn't noticed it. Her curls were wild around her face, windblown from the street, a strand stuck to her lower lip. Her chest rose and fell fast. Her cheeks were flushed. Her brown eyes were wide, blazing, locked on me.

She was not smiling. In its place, her jaw was tight, her nostrils flared, her lips pressed into a line so firm the color had drained from them. Her chin was lifted. Her hands were fists at her sides.

"Would you like to explain," she said, "why you haven't called me in three days?"

After three days of silence, she'd crossed the city at 9:00 p.m., talked her way past the security desk, taken the elevator to a floor she'd never been to, and walked into my office without knocking.

I leaned back in my chair.

Jackpot.

FIVE

SOLEIL

"Three days." I held up three fingers. "Three. Whole. Days."

He sat behind his desk. The lamp threw a warm circle of light across the papers in front of him, leaving the rest of the office in shadow. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms. His tie was gone. His jaw was set the same way it had been at the gallery — tight and controlled — but his eyes were different. Softer. Or maybe just tired.

"I had this whole speech prepared," I continued, stepping inside. "It was devastating. Razor-sharp. You were going to feel terrible."

He came around the desk. Not fast, not slow. His stride was even, deliberate, closing the distance between us with the same precision he seemed to bring to everything. I opened my mouth to deliver the first line of my devastating speech.

His hands found my face. Palms warm against my jaw, fingers curving behind my ears, tilting my head up. He pressed his lips to my forehead. Then my left cheek — slow, his mouth lingering on my skin for two full seconds.

Then he pulled me into him. His arms wrapped around my back. His chin settled on the top of my head. He held me against his chest, and I could feel his heartbeat through his shirt.

"I'm sorry." His voice was low and close, vibrating through his chest into mine. "I got buried in work and handled it badly. No excuse." His hand moved up my spine and settled between my shoulder blades. "Let me make it up to you."

The speech evaporated. Every sharp word, every rehearsed line I'd practiced in the elevator — gone. Because this wasn't the man from the gallery with the crossed arms and the locked jaw. This wasn't the controlled figure who'd pulled away after the kiss on my stoop and walked into the dark without looking back. This was someone open, present. His arms solid around me and his breath warm in my hair, apologizing without deflecting. I didn't know he had this in him.

I pulled back. My hands were flat on his chest. I searched his face — the dark eyes, the set of his mouth, the small crease between his brows. I was looking for the catch, the angle, or the deflection.

I couldn't find one. Which, for me, was the same as it not existing.

"Make it up to me how?" I asked.

"Are you hungry?"

I was starving. I'd been painting since 3:00 p.m. and had eaten half a granola bar and a handful of almonds from Margaux's desk drawer, which she would be furious about tomorrow.

"Always," I said.

He picked up his jacket from the back of his chair, shrugged it on, and held the door open. I walked through. He followed, his hand finding the small of my back as we stepped into the corridor. The touch was light and warm. I didn't pull away. I pressed into it.

Tucked below street level, the restaurant had no signage or awning label — only a brass handle and stairs descending into a glow of honeyed light that bathed everything like an oil painting. A sharply dressed man in shadows awaited us below.

"Mr. Reeves." He smiled. "Your table is ready."

The table was in a private alcove, separated from the main dining room by a curtain of amber glass beads. White linen. A single candle. The flame reflected in Nolan's eyes when he sat across from me, and I realized I was staring at the reflection instead of the menu.

"You had a reservation?" I asked.

He unfolded his napkin. "I did."

"On a Tuesday night. At a place that books weeks in advance."