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He studies me for a second. There’s something about the quiet, about the way he’s looking at me after the whole evening, that makes the words rise before I can stop them.

“You matter to me more than—”

I stop. Ross’s expression changes slightly.

“More than what?”

I look down, then back at him.

“More than I expected,” I say.

It’s true, but it isn’t everything. Naming the rest would mean asking what this is, what happens when the project ends, what happens when I’m no longer here every day. I’m not ready for those questions, and I’m not willing to ruin this by forcing answers neither of us has given yet.

Ross reaches up and brushes his thumb lightly along my cheek.

“I’ll take that,” he says.

I smile. He glances toward the terrace, then leans in and kisses me once, slow and private. When he pulls back, his forehead rests briefly against mine.

“Text me when you get home,” he says.

“I will.”

He kisses me again before turning toward the house. I watch him walk away until he disappears into the light from the terrace. Only then do I let myself say it silently.

I’m falling in love with Ross Kensington.

Chapter Twelve

Ross

The Brussels problem reaches me before breakfast and is still sitting on my desk by late afternoon.

What should’ve been a straightforward financing matter tied to one of our European partnerships has turned into a string of revised terms, conflicting legal notes and calls between London and Brussels. By the time I relocate to the estate office, I’ve already moved two meetings, shortened a dinner and told my assistant to arrange the aircraft for Wednesday morning.

I add Blaire to the itinerary without thinking twice. She can work from Brussels for two days, I’ll have most of my obligations finished by late afternoon, and we can stay through Friday instead of flying directly back after the meetings. After Geneva, the logic feels obvious enough that I don’t stop to consider whether she’ll object.

My assistant confirms the second hotel reservation, sends the itinerary and leaves me alone with another call from London.

Twenty minutes later, there’s a sharp knock at my office door.

“Come in,” I call.

Blaire steps inside holding her phone. She closes the door behind her, and the expression on her face tells me immediately that this isn’t a social visit.

“Did you book me on a flight to Brussels?” she asks.

“Yes,” I reply, glancing back at the document in front of me.

“Wednesday morning.”

“I know when it is, Ross,” she says.

“I just received the itinerary.”

I look up. “Then what’s wrong?” I ask.

Blaire stares at me for a second.