The following morning, the kitchen is quiet as I step inside, only the soft hum of the refrigerator breaking the silence.
Benedict stands by the counter, the morning light catching on his perfectly pressed suit. He looks like every bit the billionaire he is, confident and composed, as he pours a cup of coffee.
He turns at the sound of my footsteps, his gaze locking onto mine. My breath catches, and heat rushes to my cheeks. I couldn’t stop thinking about last night — our dance, the way he held me, the moment that almost led to a kiss before his phone interrupted.
What would’ve happened if it hadn’t?
Benedict’s lips quirk into a smile. “Good morning,” he says, his deep voice sending a shiver down my spine.
I swallow hard, past the lump in my throat, and force a smile that I hope looks casual. “Morning,” I reply, but my voice comes out higher than I intended, a squeak that makes me cringe internally.
He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does, but he’s too polite to point it out. Instead, he sets his coffee mug on the counter and takes a step closer, the air between us charged with unspoken words. “I’m glad I caught you before I have to leave.”
My heart skips a beat. “Leave?” I repeat, and I hate how disappointed I sound.