"We shouldn’t have had sex last night," I blurted, then wanted to melt. That was not what I meant to say.
He just blinked, then looked genuinely amused. "You regret it?"
I shook my head. "You want me off-balance so I’ll make real mistakes."
He studied me for a long beat, then leaned in. "Eliza, if I wanted to manipulate you, I’d do it in the boardroom. Not the bedroom."
"Charming." My hands shook. "Don’t patronize me, Gabriel. You’re the king of ulterior motives."
"That’s projection," he said. "You can’t imagine wanting someone without strings attached."
If he expected me to shrivel, he didn’t know me at all. "And you’re allergic to messy emotions, but you’re not exactly subtle with your own motivations."
He regarded me, then slowly unfastened the top button of his shirt. Not for me. For him. I was nearly certain. "If you’re trying to make this about business, fine," he said. "But stop pretending you don’t want me, too."
I made a noise that was supposed to be a scoff, but it escaped as a gasp. The bastard smiled.
"Fuck you," I said, but it was all heat, no venom.
He tilted his head. "You already did. Twice."
"Don’t remind me."
His voice softened. "You don’t have to do everything alone. You could ask for help, just once."
"That’s not how I got this job," I said, then bit my tongue.
He nodded. "You earned it. More than anyone. But you’re allowed to-"
I cut him off. "If you finish that sentence with ‘lean on someone,’ I will suffocate you with your own pillow."
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Noted."
I went back to my breakfast. He went back to his. The urge to cry was so overwhelming I almost laughed.
Thankfully, the rest of the trip was a breeze, and I breathed a sigh of relief when we boarded the plane to go home.
The plane landed in a storm. Of course.
He followed me through customs, not even pretending to keep his distance. I wore six-inch stilettos with violence in every step. The car waited outside, all black glass and heated seats. His driver, not mine.
"You’re coming with me," he said, not a question.
I threw him a glare, but my body ached from exhaustion. "Why?"
"You’re dead on your feet. I’ll make sure you get home. And if you want, I’ll order a pizza." He opened the door for me, not breaking eye contact.
I could have argued, but I was tired. Of this day, this week, this fucking war we kept fighting.
He slid in after me. The small space felt so intimate. His cologne tickled my nose and made my mouth water.
"Your hair’s falling down," he said.
I reached up; my bun had collapsed, black strands hanging limp. I tried to fix it, but he beat me to it, reaching over and tucking a lock behind my ear. The gentleness almost undid me.
I didn’t move his hand. "Gabriel, what are you doing?"
"Making sure you’re real," he said, and then he withdrew, all business again.