Page 143 of Hide From Me

“Hey, sunshine, there’s nothing to see here. It’s your day off, isn’t it? Isn’t Jack off too?” he replies without looking up.

I lean over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow. “Moe.”

His fingers twitch over the keyboard.

My eyes fall to the screen, and I stop breathing.

Rows of rings.

Engagementrings.

High-resolution photos of deep green stones, custom settings, and detailed engravings fill the screen. There are sleek platinum bands and brushed metal finishes. A row of saved tabs runs along the top, some labeled by carat and others by name. One tab reads"Sunshine."

My chest tightens, but it’s not in a panicked way—there’s no fear. It’s something deeper, more unruly, more consuming. My heart thuds against my ribs, as if it’s trying to ensure Ifeelevery inch of this moment.

“You’re terrible at keeping secrets,” I murmur, unable to tear my eyes away from the screen.

Moe exhales and leans back, running a hand through his hair. “I was just looking.”

“Liar.”

He lets out a deep, exaggerated sigh—a familiar gesture—and gently tugs at my wrist, pulling me into his lap with a small gasp. His arms wrap around me before I can find my balance, an instinctive move that tells me he has been longing for this moment since I walked in.

“Okay,” he admits, stretching the word with mock defeat and narrowing his eyes in playfully feigned shame. “I was going to have Cordelia pose as a fake buyer and stage some elaborate plan involving sharks, fire, and maybe a parachute.”

I blink. “Please tell me the shark wasn’t real.”

“That’s still under debate.”

He says it as if it’s not even remotely a joke—and with Cordelia involved, it might not be. I shake my head, biting back a laugh, and loop my arms around his neck. My fingers drift into the short hair at the nape of his neck, intertwining there as if to remind him he doesn’t need smoke and mirrors. He doesn’t need explosions or military-grade distractions. Just this. Just us. I rest my forehead against his, grounding us both.

“You know I don’t need the theatrics, right?” I whisper.

His breath brushes my skin as he exhales, his nose barely grazing mine. It’s intimate in the quietest way—a touch, a breath, a heartbeat syncing back into mine.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But I wanted to get it right.”

“You already did.” I lean back just enough to meet his gaze, allowing him to see how much I mean it. “You came home.”

There’s something about those words—“camehome”—that makes his arms tighten reflexively. He pulls me closer, pressing his face into the curve of my neck, and I feel the tension in him melt away. He smells of cedar, ozone, and a faint cologne that has soaked into his collar.

“And I’m staying,” he says against my skin, without hesitation or doubt.

His voice vibrates along my pulse point, and it feels like it sinks straight into my spine. Warmth floods my chest, but so does heat—the kind that coils low in my stomach when he doesn’t move, when he doesn’t shift away from where his hands have settled on my hips as if he owns them.

I adjust slightly in his lap, just a little—but it’s enough.

He groans low, guttural, and ragged. Like I’ve pulled something from him that he wasn’t prepared to give.

His fingers tighten, thumbs digging into my waist as he tilts his head back, jaw clenched.

“You keep doing that,” he warns, voice hoarse, “and I’m going to take you apart right here.”

My lips curve into a slow, knowing smile. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

His response is physical—his hand sliding up the length of my spine, fingertips dragging across the ridges of my vertebrae through the thin fabric of my dress.

“You bring me lunch like this,” he says, his voice low and rough, “wear this fucking dress inmyoffice, and expect me not to ruin you?”

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