Page 26 of When Hearts Ignite

Swallowing, I stare at him as he approaches us and leans over the table toward me, his arm outstretched, palm open.

I freeze, my brain still not functioning.

A glint reappears in those hazel eyes, and he unleashes a devastating half grin as if he knows what I’m thinking.

“My jacket, Grace,” he murmurs.

Still rendered speechless, I hand over the jacket that has quite a few new wrinkles in it from my death grip.

The music resumes from the speakers and conversations and awful singing carry on like the world hasn’t been transformed in the last few minutes like mine has.

He pauses, his head dipped slightly toward mine, even though there is at least half a foot separating us, and whispers, “Checkmate. And you’re mine.”

I gasp, my nipples pebbling at the rough timbre of his voice, the imagined edge of possessiveness in his words. He pulls away, his lips twisted in an infinitesimal smile, his searing gaze capturing mine once more before he turns away, walks toward his friends, and exits the building.

My day is his. That’s what he said. I must have misheard.

My core throbs and my panties are damp. My skin is hot, and I feel oddly out of breath.

“Shit, that was intense. What was that about? What did he say to you when you gave him back the jacket, Grace?” Bradley asks from the corner of the booth.

Glancing up, I find everyone staring at me and I take a seat and let out a shaky chuckle, hoping I sound halfway convincing. Thank God it’s dark in here and they can’t see my face.

“He t-told me this doesn’t count as overtime, to make sure I don’t bill those hours.”

Bradley and Chuck snort, shaking their heads in unison. “The boss is a jackass, no doubt.”

Amber types rapidly in her phone, a mad grin on her face, resembling a deranged hyena. “I’m sending this video to the others. I think it’s one of those things where no one will believe me unless they see it themselves.”

I laugh half-heartedly, sink back into my seat, and release a deep exhale. Turning to Jamie, I find her squinting at me, her brows furrowed, her head cocked to the side.

Quickly, I look away, like I was caught with my hand in the cookie jar, even though nothing happened in the last few minutes.

Absolutely nothing.

It’s the alcohol and the music. The environment and my subconscious acting up.

It’s nothing.

The binds around my chest tighten and I swallow the lump in my throat.

I swirl the contents of my tumbler in my hand, my mind still racing from half an hour ago. When I took a leave of sanity, strolled right into Lunasia, and belted out a song in front of colleagues, competitors, and God knows who else was in that lounge.

It’s not like I noticed anyone except her.

Grace Peyton. The intern. My new “friend.”

The woman who is wise beyond her years and seems to surprise me at every turn. The one person I’ve met who doesn’t carry any artifice, doesn’t speak with hidden riddles or secret meanings. The only person who doesn’t want anything untoward from me—not my money, not my companionship or dates, not publicity, and not even a leg up at work.

In fact, the only thing she seems to want other than my acknowledgement of her work performance is to be my friend, because she noticed the dark circles under my eyes and somehow noticed the darkness I typically find myself mired in.

I remember the way her plump lips parted in surprise when I walked over to her and tossed her my suit jacket. How she couldn’t tear her eyes off me when I sang on the stage. The way she trembled in her seat, seemingly oblivious to everyone around her.

I was tempted not to show up today, but the nagging in my chest was relentless, a phantom itch prickling my skin, and I couldn’t ignore it any more than I could force myself not to breathe. My thoughts kept drifting back to her and those violet eyes, large and guileless despite the experiences she shared with me growing up in the tougher neighborhoods of the South Bronx.

There’s a saying in the Chinese language, my mother’s heritage, chu yu yuni er bu ran, simply translated as “to be borne from the mud and be unsullied,” a phrase typically attributed to the lotus flower, which blooms beautifully amidst the brown muck of the pond.

Somehow, the idiom reminds me of Grace and her personality. Even with her shields up, her desperation to prove herself to the world, her horrible taste in clothing, she still has an air of sweetness. She shines brighter than me, someone who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and yet, somehow still defective and hollow, someone who swallows the light instead of spreading it to my surroundings.

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