Page 57 of The Billionaire I Left Behind

A long moment stretches, and then he moves, slowly, testing. His fingers brush my arm, and I shiver at the warmth that spreads through me. Then his lips are on mine.

The world stills.

It’s not like before: hurried or hesitant. This is deliberate. Slow. Deep. His fingers skim up my arm, curling at my waist,and I melt against him, letting myself feel everything I’ve been trying to push away. Our kiss deepens and from my head to my toes I feel the warmth, the love … the joy returning to my life.

It’s terrifying how easy it is to lose myself in him. And then I remember, I can’t. I pull back, breathless, my hands still clutching his shirt. “Bryan… is this a mistake?”

His hands linger at my waist, his gaze searching mine. Then, softly, “No. It never was.”

I swallow, heart hammering. “Then what is this?”

He exhales, fingers tightening slightly against my back. “I’m tired of pretending. Of fighting this.” He shakes his head. “Emma, I don’t want to keep pushing you away. And I can’t handle you pushing me away anymore. I just want this “us” whatever it is. We’ll take it a step at a time. No pressure.”

I stare at him, emotions warring inside me. Part of me wants this, to let go, to believe in the possibility of us again. But another part of me is terrified. Because if I let myself fall, I might not recover if he decides to walk away.

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. Bryan’s thumb brushes against my side, reassuring, patient. “Then we go slow.” I let out a shaky breath, staring at the man I’ve loved and lost and somehow found again.

And for the first time in a long time… I think I want to take the risk.

***

The scent of fresh coffee and something sweet drifts into my room, pulling me from sleep. My mind drifts back to the previous night, a smile spreading on my lips at the thought. I believe we have gotten the closure we both needed.

My eyes flutter open, blinking against the morning light. The house is quiet except for the occasional creak of the floorboardsand the faint sound of… pans? I sit up, frowning. That’s not right.

I live with Bryan Kingston: a man whose idea of cooking involves grilled steak and takeout menus. Well, that's as far as I remember him as a teenager.

I push the covers off, shoving my hair back as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Maybe I’m still dreaming. Maybe Stella stopped by early and…

A low hum deep, familiar reaches my ears. My stomach dips.

Bryan?I freeze for a second before padding out of my room, curiosity tightening my chest. When I step into the kitchen, I stop dead.

Bryan is at the stove, flipping a pancake with the kind of practiced ease that makes me question every assumption I’ve ever had about him. He’s barefoot, clad in navy-blue sweatpants that hug his frame too well. His sleeves are pushed up, forearms flexing slightly as he moves, a towel slung over his shoulder.

He looks... comfortable. Like he belongs here. The thought unnerves me. The table is already set with a spread of pancakes, eggs, bacon, and fresh fruit that sits in the center, next to two steaming mugs of coffee.

I blink. Hard. “You… cooked?”

Bryan turns at my voice, smirking like he’s been waiting for me to walk in and be stunned into silence.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

I scowl. “Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me. What’s going on?”

He chuckles, turning back to the stove. “Relax. I didn’t poison anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

I fold my arms, watching him carefully. “Since when do you cook?”

He slides the last pancake onto the plate and finally faces me fully, leaning back against the counter. “Since I had someone who I wanted to cook for.”

My stomach tightens. There it is. That undercurrent in his voice, the thing I keep trying to ignore.

I clear my throat, pushing past the way my pulse just jumped. “And that someone is…?”

His eyes gleam with something unreadable. “Who do you think?”

I look away, heart thudding as I focus on the table instead. I won’t read into this. I can’t.

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