Page 10 of The Foreman
She nodded but didn’t move.
Trace stepped closer. “Macy...”
She licked her lips. “Do you ever regret it?”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“Not giving me a second chance. Three years ago.”
Trace’s voice came low, like gravel. “Every damn day.”
She inhaled sharply.
“But I don’t regret making you leave. You weren’t ready.”
Her chin lifted. “And now?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The storm outside wasn’t the only one he needed to worry about. It was the one standing in front of him that might burn down everything he’d built, and he wasn't sure he cared.
3
TRACE
The next morning broke with no fanfare, just a pale gray light pushing past the clouds and sliding through the slats of the window blinds. Trace was already up, dressed in worn jeans and a black Henley that clung to his shoulders, halfway through his first cup of coffee.
He stood at the kitchen counter, scanning the news feed, fingers curled around the thick ceramic mug, the weight of it familiar and grounding. The coffee was hot, almost scalding, but he welcomed the burn. Steam rose in lazy curls, catching the edge of the morning light that slipped through the blinds. The rim pressed against his lower lip, and he took a slow sip, letting the bitterness coat his tongue. Outside, the wind pressed against the house in occasional sighs. Inside, the silence stretched until the soft creak of the upstairs landing broke it.
He didn’t look up from his laptop. Not right away. His hand tightened slightly around the mug, and the air in the room shifted. She hadn’t made a sound yet, but he could feel her behind him. There was a distinctive ripple of energy, bright and aware, like a spark catching dry tinder. Trace didn’t need to see her to know she was there. He felt her in his chest, in theprickling tension across his shoulders, in the way the silence turned electric the moment she entered the room.
Macy’s energy came in like a current, disruptive and sparking, filling the space before she said a word. When she finally padded into the kitchen, it was barefoot and wearing the same damn tee shirt that had derailed his thoughts the night before.
“My guest room didn’t come with coffee,” she said, voice still husky with sleep.
Trace raised his mug and took a slow sip. “Not a hotel.”
“No, definitely not. Hotel rooms come with less glaring and better room service.”
He finally met her gaze. “Keep testing me, darlin’. See how long that attitude lasts.”His voice was calm, but his blood wasn’t. It beat hot beneath his skin, steady and slow like the draw of a trigger.
She was playing with fire and he knew it, could see it in the way her eyes glittered and her lip tugged into that half-daring, half-tempting curve she always used right before she stepped over a line. And God help him, he wanted her to. Wanted to give her a reason to stop pushing and start surrendering. But if he let himself go there now, he'd lose more than control. He'd lose perspective.
She grinned, pouring herself a cup from the pot he’d set to brew at five. “Was that a warning or a promise?”
“Both.”
Macy leaned against the counter across from him and took a sip. She grimaced. “Strong enough to stand a spoon upright.”
“Good. Puts hair on your chest.”
She blinked. “Funny, I seem to recall you liked your women bare everywhere but their heads. For those that chose not to be completely bare, God forbid there be a curl out of place.”
Trace groaned under his breath and turned back to his laptop, jaw tight and shoulders bunched with effort. It wasn’t just her voice or the way that damn shirt clung to her hips, it was the way she filled up the room like she had every right to be there.
His mind had wandered too easily last night, imagining her in his space, in his bed, skin flushed and wrists bound to the headboard with the tie he kept in his nightstand for moments he hadn’t allowed himself in years. He needed distance. Discipline. A cold shower hadn't cut it last night, not really. It sure as hell wouldn't cut it this time. He refocused on the screen, forcing himself to scroll through the security feed and the encrypted message Jesse had flagged overnight.
Trace was trying to be professional, to stay in control. But the damn woman made it harder with every word out of her smart little mouth. A mouth that was too easy to envision opening under his or better yet, wrapped around his cock.
He refocused on the secure client dashboard Silver Spur used to track internal reports and chatter. Trace opened it with a tap.
