Page 38 of Sweet Sinners
Her cheeks flush, a sudden laugh bursting from her lips, bright and real. She quickly presses her fingers over her mouth, eyes sparking with embarrassed amusement. Seeing her like this hits me straight in the chest. For one second, she's carefree, the weight finally slippingfrom her shoulders, and I feel this fierce, impossible urge to make that moment last. To stretch it into minutes, hours, into forever, just to keep her looking at me like that.
“I think you're doing better than fine,” I say, refusing to let her brush off the compliment. “You’re stubborn. Ambitious. You command attention. And I saw your interview.”
Her laughter fades abruptly, replaced with cautious intensity. “You watched it?”
“Every second,” I confirm, holding her wary gaze. “You nailed it. You didn’t dodge questions, didn’t hide behind pre-approved lines. You made it personal, Cali. Like you cared. People notice that, it makes all the difference.”
She’s silent, studying me carefully like she’s trying to decide if I’m sincere or just placating her.
“You mean that?” she asks finally, voice low and guarded.
I lean back slightly, letting sincerity seep into my voice. “Yeah, I do. Most CEOs would’ve hidden behind a PR team, scripted responses, or sent someone else. But you stepped forward. You owned it. That’s leadership. That's strength. And people respect that.”
She swallows, the weight of the moment settling visibly on her shoulders. When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper. “I hope you're right.”
It’s not just doubt in her voice, it’s vulnerability. The admission of how heavy everything truly feels, how desperately she wants to succeed.
We finish dinner quietly, but it’s comfortable, easy, like a truce settled between us without words. These quiet moments happen more often lately: no defenses, no fighting. Just silence. Just us.
And I realize something important.
Not every silence needs filling.
Sometimes, just being together is enough.
Chapter nineteen
Cali
Irollmyshoulders,tryingto loosen the tension that's been coiled there all week, exhaustion sinking deep into my bones. The past few days have been one long fight after another, fires to extinguish, battles to pick, and choices coming faster than I can breathe. The line between who I am and who this job demands I become keeps slipping, and I hate it. Every day it feels like I'm losing another piece of myself, ground down by endless meetings and impossible expectations.
But tonight, instead of locking myself inside to drown in reports and emails, I grab my worn copy ofThe Bell Jarand head out to the greenhouse. It's strange how that book, bleak and honest and painfully real, has become my sanctuary lately. There's comfort in Esther’s unraveling, her brutal honesty makes my own chaos feel manageable somehow.
Stepping inside the greenhouse, I exhale slowly. Connor's nowhere to be seen, and relief trickles through me. It's not that I mind his presence anymore, honestly, I've started to crave it in ways I refuse to admit, but tonight, I just need quiet. I settle onto my spot on the wicker couch, the familiar scent of earth and green wrapping around me, and open the book, desperate to let everything else fade away.
My hand drifts absently to the tight muscles at the back of my neck, rubbing at knots that refuse to give. Stress holds me hostage, but here, tucked away from prying eyes and impossible standards, I can at least breathe. Slowly, the story pulls me under, the greenhouse fading into the periphery as daylight bleeds into evening.
I'm lost somewhere between pages when something catches my attention, a gentle glow weaving through the greenery. My breath hitches, and I glance up to see twinkling lights carefully strung along the beams, casting the entire space in warm, inviting gold. The delicate brightness dances over the leaves, softening shadows, and illuminating the edges of petals.
I definitely didn't put those up.
My gaze drifts to the entrance, and there he is—Connor, leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, a subtle smile teasing at the corner of his mouth. "Planning on hiding out here all night?" His voice is low, edged with quiet amusement.
"When did you even have time for this?" I gesture vaguely at the lights.
He shrugs lightly, watching me closely. "Spent a few late nights out here. Couldn't find a spotlight."
I arch a brow, lips twitching. "You have my Amazon password, remember? You could’ve just ordered one."
Another shrug, more guarded this time. "Not my money to spend."
His tone is casual, but something underneath it makes me pause. Closing my book, I set it aside and look at him more seriously. "Connor, listen. I have more money than I know what to do with. If you need something, just buy it. If it's too much, I'll let you know. But this is your home too, whether you like it or not. And if it makes it easier…" I gesture again toward the glowing strands, offering him a faint smile, "consider it repayment for all those dinners you've been cooking."
He doesn't respond right away. Instead, he studies me, his gaze intense, unreadable, as if he's searching for something he can't quite name. When he finally speaks, there's a slow, almost teasing smirk. "Is that all it takes to get on your payroll, then? A few decent meals?"
I roll my eyes, fighting back a smile. "Don't push your luck."
He watches me carefully, then moves a step closer, his eyes never leaving mine. "Work's been rough on you," he says, quiet, steady, more of a statement than a question.
