Page 31 of When Hearts Ignite

“What’s going on Millie?” I poke her with my finger.

She glances up and forces a tight smile. “Nothing. Enough about me. How are you, Grace? How’s the internship going? We barely get to see you since you started.”

I look at the small porcelain cup in front of me and trace my finger on the Japanese character, which I recognize as love. Except for the memorable evening at Lunasia last week, where in a few short minutes, I felt like a main character in the books I read, someone who believes in destiny and soulmates, life has been as normal as can be.

“You’re mine.” His words, and the raspy tone in his voice echo in my mind. It felt like a brand. A caress.

It’s nonsense. Figments of my imagination. Everything is normal. Unchanged.

Yet, in the deepest parts of me something feels different. Something I can’t name.

So, this past week, I spent my days quietly in the office, diligently working on the Scott Enterprises project and the TransAmerica research, trying to push these ridiculous thoughts from my mind.

But it was a hopeless cause.

My heart floated and careened out of control when I heard his baritone voice greeting me in the early morning hours when the office was cloaked in darkness. I pretended to be surprised every time he approached my cubicle as if each morning was a chance encounter. My pulse rioted inside me, his occasional smiles fanning the flames of the spark in my chest.

Each day he lingered, his eyes as intense and penetrating as ever, but we only talked about the weather, about my plans for the weekend, or the lack of plans on his end. Some days, he shared with me snippets of his life in the city, and I gathered how lonely he was from the smallest details he revealed. He laughed at my random factoids and we’d discuss the merits of fiction where he still insisted love stories were a waste of time.

I memorized the way a vein pulsed on his right temple, beckoning me like a temptation, and I wondered if my touch could soothe the throbbing. My fingers twitched with a need to release his pinched brows when we talked about our families. From what I gather, he has a close relationship with his sisters, and that’s about it. A shadow crossed his face when he mentioned his parents, and he changed the subject.

Then, that vein on his temple would once again pound against his smooth skin, ticking like a time bomb.

As soon as the clock struck eight, we acted as strangers once more. Boss and employee. Mentor and intern. Not friends in the dark.

But the urge to smooth my fingers on his face remains.

During business hours, I’d only seen Steven once in a group meeting to discuss the performance of the investments we were managing for Adrian Scott.

In the large conference room, where I sat in my usual intern spot at the back corner, and he stood in front of the room, dressed impeccably in a dark pinstripe three-piece suit looking every inch the boss he was, an exact replica of my first day at Pietra, I couldn’t help but compare how the feelings pulsing inside me felt different.

How, instead of simple excitement at being in the room with the A-team of Wall Street, my eager heart wanting to learn and contribute, I found myself silently observing, my eyes skating over the imposing man at the head of the table, cataloging the way his hair is immaculately styled, not a strand out of place, but the dark circles under his eyes more prominent under the stark lighting.

I couldn’t help noticing the way his muscles seemed tense, how there was an overall weariness in his frame, and I wondered if he wasn’t sleeping at night again. He wouldn’t tell me when I’d asked him in the morning. But I suspected that was the case.

And when his eyes caught mine, I’d imagined the piercing intensity reflected in the cool hazel tones were for me, his friend, because he would sense my concern for him. His beautiful lips would slightly tip up on one side and I would find myself doing the same. My pulse fluttered, and I sat up taller. Then he looked away, addressing the rest of the room.

These barely visible, split-second moments feel like the beginnings of an ancient script on a well-worn tapestry, writing I don’t understand, yet has been there since the dawn of time. Perhaps we are all just players in a story written long ago in the stars.

After that group meeting and another small smile of acknowledgement as we passed by each other in the hallway the same day, nothing has changed. No more mention of friendship or having a life outside of work.

Neither of us has addressed the bet or the evening at Lunasia.

If it weren’t for the quiet encounters every morning, where he’d share my breakfast under the lone lamplight from my desk, it almost felt as if nothing happened. As if everything were figments of my imagination.

Then, he went on a business trip, leaving me in the office haunted by strange thoughts and a pit in my stomach which seemed to grow over time.

“Grace? Hello? You okay? You mentioned you found a lead on your father the other day?”

Millie’s soft voice draws my attention back to the girls, finding them staring at me quizzically. Taylor’s hand is frozen midair, as if she was about to grab her drink but got sidetracked by what she’s seeing on my face.

“Sorry, I’m thinking of some things.” I smile, fiddling with the cup in my hands. “I found some old love letters tucked behind the bookshelf.”

Taylor sits up straighter. I haven’t gotten a chance to show them to her yet. But during my careful dismantling of our furniture in my poor girl’s search for our birth father, I found a stack of yellow envelopes, with the postage stamps still intact, bound in twine and wedged behind a few dusty volumes of books I’ve never seen Mom read.

“I wish Mom would just tell us so we don’t have to play detective. We’re grown women, we can handle the truth, whatever it is.” Taylor sighs. “Anyway, what’s in the letters?”

“I haven’t gone through all of them, but the man didn’t sign his name and there wasn’t an address for the sender on the envelope. But the penmanship is beautiful, and from what I’ve read so far, it seems like he comes from money.”

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