Page 14 of Born in Fire

I find myself fighting down a grin. “You think they bought Dracula’s castle?” I’m teasing her, which is inappropriate, but that’s how I roll.

“No.” Lydia gives me a scathing look. “They bought a monastery near where he used to live. Perhaps there are historical items of great value that they’re aware of.”

The room falls silent as we all consider this. Tech companies don’t typically overpay for obscure historical sites unless they’re looking for something specific.

“Could be a tax write-off,” suggests one of the lawyers.

I shake my head. “Not at triple the market value.”

Caleb’s eyes meet mine, a silent question passing between us. What exactly are we buying?

“I told you there was something fishy about this deal,” he mutters.

“You wanna pull out?” I ask.

His expression darkens. “We’re too far down the line to back out now. The investors are fully committed. The fallout of pulling the plug would cost us millions.”

“So?” I shrug. “It’s not like you can’t afford it.”

“Nice of you to be so cavalier withmymoney,” he says drily.

“The shareholders’ money,” I correct him… because sometimes my brother needs to be taken down a peg or two.

“Of course,” he concedes. “In any event, it’s not enough of an issue to derail the deal. We just need to keep a closer eye on things. Can I rely on you to do this, Dorian?”

All eyes turn to me, and for a moment, I feel like a scolded kid. “Of course you can, Dorian. I’m on top of it. One hundred percent.” But even as I speak, part of my awareness remains downstairs with the captivating stranger who knows about stars.

Chapter 5

Juno

I close my apartment door behind me and lean against it, a smile stretching across my face before I even realize it’s happening. The security check is automatic—deadbolt, chain, secondary lock—but my mind is elsewhere, on golden eyes and a voice like chocolate.

Dorian Craven.

Even his name feels good in my thoughts. I drop my bag on the entryway table, kick off my shoes, and catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror. Flushed cheeks. Bright eyes. I look… happy. The expression seems foreign on my face, and I quickly look away.

“Get a grip, Juno,” I mutter, moving into the kitchen. “He’s just a guy asking for your number. Not exactly groundbreaking.”

But it is, though. It’s the first time I’ve given my number to anyone since Tyler. The first time I’ve felt that flutter of possibility, that dangerous spark of connection.

My therapist would call this progress.

I call it terrifying.

I fill the kettle and set it on the stove, trying to focus on the simple task rather than the memory of Dorian leaning against the counter, watching me with those extraordinary eyes. Eyes that seemed to see straight through my carefully constructed barista persona to something underneath.

The heat that had rushed through me when our fingers briefly touched as I handed him the napkin with my number… it was electric. Unmistakable. I’d forgotten what that felt like—that immediate, animal attraction that has nothing to do with logic or safety or good decisions.

I inhale deeply, catching the scent of basil and mint from my windowsill garden. The herbs are thriving now, unlike my first three attempts. I water them daily, prune them carefully, talk to them sometimes when no one’s around to think I’m crazy. Tyler hated plants—said they were messy, pointless. Just like he thought my painting was pointless. A waste of time that could be better spent focusing on him.

The kettle whistles, pulling me from the memory. I select a mug—cobalt blue with gold stars, something I bought after the breakup specifically because Tyler would have hated it—and drop in a chamomile tea bag. The routine soothes me: pour water, watch steam rise, inhale the gentle aroma.

As I carry the mug to the living room, I catalog the differences between Dorian and Tyler. Both attractive, yes. Both confident. But Tyler’s confidence always seemed like a performance, a tool he wielded to make others feel smaller. Dorian’s felt… natural. Like he was comfortable in his own skin.

And his eyes—there was something astute there. Something thatsawme.

“You’re projecting,” I tell myself, settling onto my couch. “Making him into something special because you want him to be.”

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