Page 21 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

I lean against the kitchen counter, spatula in hand, and try to appear nonchalant as she blinks away the remnants of sleep. “Morning,” I say. “Hope you’re hungry.”

She joins me at the kitchen island, glancing around with the kind of surprise that’s usually reserved for discovering you’ve won the lottery—or that your one-night stand can actually cook.

“Adrian, what are you doing?” Her voice is groggy but incredulous.

“Breakfast,” I announce, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Go on, have a seat. I’ll serve you.”

“Shouldn’t I help?” Isabella peers up at me, and I can’t help but notice how the morning light dances along her hair. With no makeup and drenched in a mixture of both our scents, I don’t think anyone can be any more beautiful.

“Nonsense,” I tell her. “You don’t have to do a thing. Just enjoy what I make you.”

“Can I at least make your coffee?” Her offer is almost challenging, like she’s daring me to let her contribute.

“That you can do. Help yourself to whatever you like in the fridge. I’m a cream and sugar guy.”

“Actually, I don’t drink coffee,” she says, and it’s like she suddenly just remembered.

“Really? But I’ve seen you drink it at work,” I counter, my lawyer instincts kicking in before the sun’s even high.

“Oh, um.” She scratches the back of her head. “I meant I don’t drink it anymore. Trying to cut back.”

“Fair enough. I’ll still take mine with cream and sugar.”

“Fine,” she relents, her movements still a little sluggish as she pads barefoot to the coffee machine. “I guess it’s juice for me then?”

“How about orange? It’s the most mature juice I have.”

She nods once. “I’ll take it.”

“Coming right up.” I pour her a glass, watching as she adds cream and sugar to my coffee with precision. There’s something about watching her do something so ... domestic that gives me a thrill I didn’t expect.

“Here you go,” she says, handing me the mug before taking her seat at the table, the bedsheet draped around her creating a statue-like silhouette.

“Thanks.” I set plates down, piling them high with bacon, eggs, and avocado toast—my impromptu attempt at culinary romance. Serving her first feels strangely significant, like I’m honoring some ancient rite of passage.

“Wow, this looks amazing,” she says, genuine appreciation in her eyes. And I can’t decide if she’s more impressed by the food or the fact that I’m the one who made it.

“Enjoy,” I tell her, sliding into the chair opposite her. We eat mostly in silence, the simple sounds of cutlery and chewing fillingthe kitchen. It’s comfortable, easy, like something we’ve done a thousand times before—even though we both know that’s not the case.

As I watch her sip her orange juice, sunlight catching those green eyes, I find myself caught up in a moment I never anticipated. For a man who prides himself on being ten steps ahead, Isabella King keeps tripping me up in ways I never see coming.

The final forkful of avocado toast disappears into her mouth, and she’s eyeing the last piece of bacon like it’s the holy grail. I can’t help but chuckle. “You’re quite the food critic. Should I be worried about my Yelp review?”

Her laugh, light and surprising, fills the space between us. “Five stars for the chef,” she says, a playfulness in her tone that’s as refreshing as it is disarming.

I lean back in my chair, the weight of the morning pressing against the silence that follows. There’s a warmth here, something palpable and unnerving in its intensity. I take a breath, feeling like I’m on the edge of a cliff, toes curling over the precipice.

“Isabella,” I start, and the words are there, ready to leap. “How would you feel about keeping this ... thing between us going? Casually, of course.”

She raises an eyebrow, green eyes sharp as ever. “Casual?” There’s a skepticism in her voice, but it’s not unwelcome. It’s Isabella, through and through.

“Absolutely. No strings.” I run a hand through my hair, suddenly aware of how absurd this must sound. “You’ve got your career path bulldozed straight ahead, and me—well, let’s just say I’m not exactly keen to dive back into the deep end after the matrimonial belly flop.”

She dabs the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “But we work together. You’re my boss. Things could get really …”

“I know. Don’t think I haven’t considered all of that. Even though I’m your boss, I’m also just Adrian. We’ve known each other since we were kids. Our dads have been best friends long before the thought of either of us was even conceived.”

“You’veknown me since you were a kid. I’ve known you my entire life,” she points out. Right. The nine-year age gap. Now that she’s 27, it hardly feels like the monumental difference it did when we were younger.

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