Page 63 of His Secret Merger

“I’m here, Jules,” Damian murmured, his voice rough and low against my hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Damian

The smell of eggs and fresh herbs filled the kitchen, a sharp contrast to the usual quiet whir of the espresso machine I relied on most mornings. I’d never made a veggie omelet in my life—probably hadn’t even cracked an egg in months—but somehow, this morning, it felt like the only thing I could do with my restless hands.

The whisk scraped softly against the side of the bowl as I muttered under my breath, “Thank goodness it’s Saturday.”

It was the kind of morning I never gave myself: unhurried, no conference calls or back-to-back meetings, only a meeting with board members this afternoon to wrap up planning for the gala. For now, it was just me, the sizzle of a pan, and the sounds from the gulls flying over the water outside the kitchen window.

The green tea steeped quietly on the counter, sending thin trails of steam into the air. My mind was clearer than it had been in weeks—sharp enough to know there were no more excuses or side-steps.

I glanced toward the bedroom. The door was still half-closed, and behind it, the faint sound of water running in the shower had gone quiet. My chest tightened just a little, the way it always did when I let myself think too long about her—about the way she’d curled into me last night, about the way her walls had finally, finally lowered just enough to let me in.

And about the thing I should’ve said months ago.

I turned back to the stove, flipping the omelet carefully, the edges crisping just enough to make me nod in approval. I wasn’t a cook, but something was satisfying in the act of creating something with my hands that wasn’t a contract, deal, or win.

A sound behind me—the faint pad of bare feet, the soft rustle of fabric—pulled me from my thoughts.

I didn’t turn around right away. Instead, I reached for the plates, letting the moment stretch out, letting my pulse remind me of the weight of what was coming.

“Morning,” I murmured as I slid the omelet onto the plate. “Hope you’re hungry.”

When I finally turned, she was there in the doorway—towel wrapped around her damp hair, loose sundress brushing the tops of her thighs, skin still warm and flushed from the shower.

For half a second, I just looked at her. Not as the woman I’d shared a bed with or bantered with at late-night fundraisers, but as the woman I loved. The woman I wanted more from, and the woman who held my future in her hands.

She offered a crooked, sleepy smile. “You’re full of surprises, Sinclair.”

I smirked, sliding the plate onto the table. “Don’t get used to it. This is probably the pinnacle of my domestic abilities.”

She laughed softly, tucking the towel tighter around her hair as she moved into the room. “I was just going to ask if you wanted coffee, but I remembered you’ve gone full health kick on me.”

I lifted the tea mug and gave it a slight tilt. “Figured we needed to continue the cleanse.” My voice softened as our eyes met. “A total reset.”

Her smile faded, but not in a bad way—more like she was letting herself feel the weight of the morning. The air shifted between us, that gentle pull I’d been circling for months, maybe longer.

As I set the second mug down and pulled out the chair for her, my chest tightened again — not with nerves this time, but with something quieter. Resolve.

Today was the day. No more running. No more half-truths.

I just had to make sure I didn’t screw it up.

She hesitated at the edge of the table, eyes flicking over the mugs, the plates, and then to me.

“You really went for it,” she murmured, something soft curling at the edge of her mouth.

“Figured I’d better feed you before I corner you with all the big, messy conversations we’ve been avoiding,” I said lightly, gesturing for her to sit. “Eat first. Then scare you off.”

She let out a breath of laughter, the kind that cracked something tight in my chest. But when she sat, when I slid into the chair across from her, the air between us shifted.

For a few minutes, we ate in an almost-normal rhythm—the quiet scrape of forks on plates, the faint clink of mugs. But her glances kept drifting up to me, and I knew she felt it too. The push of something unspoken pressing up between us, no longer willing to be ignored.

I set my fork down carefully. “Jules.”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide, like she’d been trying to hold the world still a little longer.

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