Page 69 of Baby For My Ex's Brother

I hear movement from the office outside, the soft shuffle of footsteps that I've come to know so well. The door swings open, and there she is—Shiloh, her cheeks tinged pink from the crisp November air, or maybe it's something else. She's wearing her coat, a simple white puffer jacket that somehow complements her understated elegance.

I rise from my seat and push back the chair with a scrape that sounds too loud in the silence. My gaze flicks toward the door, and without a word, she steps inside and closes it behind her, clicking the lock into place. We’ve learned a certain kind of silent language for each other—a wordless office etiquette just for the two of us.

"Hey," she says softly, a question in the curve of her lips.

"Hey," I reply, barely above a whisper. My heart hammers against my ribcage, betraying my calm exterior.

I cross the room, fighting the tremor in my fingers as I reach for her coat. She stands still, eyes widened just a fraction as I slip the fabric off her shoulders. It's a simple, intimate gesture, but it feels monumental right now.

Her coat hangs on the rack by the door, and I turn back to face her. Without hesitation, I close the gap between us, my hands finding her cheeks, cupping them gently.

I lean in, and our lips meet—a kiss that's soft, questioning, almost hesitant. It's a stark contrast to the commanding presence I usually bring to this office, to every aspect of my life.

But with Shiloh? With her, everything feels different.

I pull back slightly, searching her eyes for any sign of retreat, any hint of doubt. There's a vulnerability in this closeness, one that's as exhilarating as it is terrifying. I'm not used to this—thisnervous flutter, this raw edge of desire mixed with something deeper, something real.

"Drinks with Jackie go well?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. I'm grasping for normality in a situation that's anything but.

She chuckles, a light, musical sound that fills the space between us. "Actually, I didn't drink. Wine hasn't been sitting right with me lately." Her eyes drop to the floor for a moment before meeting mine again. "I just ate cake instead. Lots of it. I don’t know if you’re the one who picked it out…but it was really,reallygood."

I can't help but laugh, the tension breaking like a wave against the shore. It's such an innocent admission, so quintessentially Shiloh.

"Sorry, that's not very appealing," she murmurs, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink.

"Shiloh," I say, tilting her chin up gently so she's looking at me again. "Everything you do is appealing to me." And it's the truth.

Every little thing about her fascinates me—the way her nose scrunches when she laughs, how her fingers dance along the keyboard when she's deep in work, the passionate tirades she goes on about her favorite novels.

Seeing her blush deepen, I realize that what started as a forbidden flame has turned into a wildfire. The rules be damned—she's the one thing I've let myself want more than success, more than control.

I guide her over to the window, and we settle on the broad windowsill. The Boston skyline serves as a backdrop, lights twinkling like technicolor fireflies. I take Shiloh's hand, feeling the softness of her skin against mine, and bring it to my lips, kissing each knuckle in turn. It feels like some old-world gesture of courtship, but right now, with her, it's just right.

"Is this why you wanted to see me?" She clears her throat, sounding unsure. "Is this a booty call?"

The question stings a little, not because she asked it, but because I hate that it even crossed her mind. I shake my head, feeling an uncharacteristic heat rise in my cheeks.

"No, not at all." My voice is emphatic, urgent even. "I wanted to talk to you."

She looks at me, her expression softening, waiting.

"About the other day—in the copy room—I was out of line," I confess. "I got gruff about the printer..." I trail off, remembering the frustration that bubbled up, frustration that had nothing to do with printers or copiers.

"It's okay," she interrupts, waving away the concern. "You were right. I should've checked if it was free for personal use."

But I can't let her take the blame for my irritability. "That's not the point. It wasn't okay how I spoke to you." I lock eyes with her, willing her to understand. "I don't like the idea of losing you, Shiloh."

There. I said it. It's the naked truth, stripped of pretense and posturing. Her eyes widen, and I search them for a sign that she comprehends the depth of my confession. My chest tightens with anxiety.

"I'm saying this... because I'm falling for you, Shiloh,” I continue. “I want to be with you. I want you to be mine."

There's a vulnerability in laying your heart bare to someone, a fear that they might not feel the same. But it's out now, hanging between us like the Boston skyline illuminated against the night.

Shiloh squeezes my hand, and her other hand drifts to her mouth, nibbling at her lip in a way that sends my thoughts spiraling. Her brow creases, and I sense hesitation. "What's wrong?" My voice barely carries over the hum of the city below.

Using my free hand, I gently coax her chin up, directing her gaze back to mine. She meets my eyes, and there's a storm brewing in hers—a tempest of emotions and decisions.

"I want that too," she admits, her voice a quiet resolve. "But my application to Trinity... I owe it to myself to go if I’m accepted."

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