Page 81 of Suite 7

When she pulls back she stays close, her forehead tipping forward to rest against mine. Both of us still. The kitchen quiet around us, the city carrying on outside the windows, neither of us quite ready to step back into it.

I feel her exhale.

I feel mine.

She lifts her head and looks at me, and whatever is in my face right now I can’t arrange into anything useful before she sees it.

“Brat,” I say.

It comes out rough. Transparent. Nothing like it usually sounds and we both know it.

The corner of her mouth curves, as she picks up her coffee mug without a word.

Her phone buzzes. She checks it and her expression shutters.

“Sloane?”

She nods. “She’s asking if I’m free for lunch.” Guilt flashes, then she files it away — quick, practiced, the same motion every time.

She types back with one hand, coffee mug still gripped in the other. Sets the phone down. “I hate this.”

“I know.”

She doesn’t look at me when she says it, and I don’t look at her. We both look at nothing, the counter, the window. I can see the screen of her phone from where I’m standing. Sloane has already replied: can’t wait, love you xx. Vera doesn’t pick it up again.

We drink the rest of our coffee in silence.

When she leaves forty minutes later, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, my shirt folded in her bag:

“I’m stealing this, by the way.”

“I noticed.”

I kiss her at the door. Long and deep.

“Text me your schedule for the week. I’ll find time for another session.”

She pulls back, eyebrow arching. “Another session? Already? Someone’s eager.”

“Careful.” My eyes find hers and hold. “Keep that tone and I’ll drag you back inside right now.”

“Promises, promises, Sinclair.” She traces her finger down my bare chest. “Besides, what if I’m busy? I have a demanding career.”

I catch her wrist, grip firm enough to make my point. “Then you’ll make time. Won’t you?”

Her breath catches. The brat melts. “Yes, Sir.”

The title in this context, domestic, fully dressed, standing in my doorway, goes straight through me.

“Good girl.” I release her wrist. “Go. Before I change my mind about letting you leave.”

“So bossy.” She’s grinning, backing toward the elevator. “I’ll send you my calendar.”

“And text me when you’re home safe.”

“Why?”

“Humor me.”