Page 11 of The Placeholder
The man says something else, leaning in with increased confidence. Her smile fades, replaced by that polite mask again. Her fingers tighten around the stem of her martini glass.
That’s when her eyes find mine over his shoulder.
For the second time tonight, the world stops spinning. Her gaze locks with mine, and I see something there—recognition, perhaps, or relief. Without thinking, I close the distance between us.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, the words coming from somewhere I don’t recognize within myself. My voice is softer than usual, but still carries the authority that makes men twice my size stand at attention.
The suit half-turns, irritation flashing across his face before he registers my size, my stance, the look in my eyesthat has made hardened criminals reconsider their life choices.
“I didn’t realize you were meeting someone,” he says to her, but his eyes stay on me, measuring the threat.
“That’s because she was being polite,” I say evenly. “But now I’m here, and you’re in my seat.”
There’s a moment—there’s always a moment—when a man decides whether his pride is worth the consequences. I watch the calculation play out across his face, the mental assessment of his chances against someone built like me. He makes the smart choice.
“No problem,” he says, sliding off the stool with forced casualness. “Nice talking with you.”
She doesn’t respond, her eyes still on mine as he retreats. Up close, they’re even more remarkable—a deep amber with flecks of gold, intelligent and wary and curious all at once.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, but there’s no reproach in her voice. “I was handling it.”
"I know you were.” I don’t move to take the vacated seat, maintaining a respectful distance. “But sometimes it’s easier when someone else steps in.”
Her lips curve slightly. “And you just happened to be passing by?”
"No.” The honesty surprises both of us. “I saw you the moment you walked in.”
Her eyebrows lift, but instead of looking uncomfortable, she seems intrigued. “That’s either very romantic or slightly concerning.”
"It surprised me too,” I admit, feeling strangely exposed. “I’m not usually so...”
"Forward?” she suggests.
“Certain,” I correct her.
Something shifts in her expression—a flicker of recognition, perhaps, or understanding. She studies me for a moment, then extends her hand. “I’m Della.”
I take it, hyper-aware of the softness of her skin against my callused palm, the delicate strength in her fingers. “Axel. Most people call me Ax.”
"Axel,” she repeats, ignoring the nickname, testing the full weight of my name. It sounds different in her voice, like she’s uncovering something hidden within those two syllables. “Are you going to sit down, Axel, or just loom intimidatingly all evening?”
The tension breaks, and I find myself smiling—a genuine smile, not the calculated one I use in negotiations or the predatory one that warns of danger. I take the seat beside her, feeling like I’ve passed some test I didn’t know I was taking.
“So,” Della says, turning slightly to face me fully, “My friend is running late, so you have fifteen minutes to tell me five things about yourself.”
I fight the goofy smile spreading across my face and nod. “Deal.”
CHAPTER 6
DELLA
Iwatch his face, the way his blue eyes—not pale like a summer sky but deep navy like the ocean at dusk—crinkle at the corners when he smiles. His jawline could cut glass, softened only by the hint of stubble that catches the amber light of the bar. There’s something about this man that makes my heart race in a way that’s both terrifying and exhilarating, like standing at the edge of a cliff with the wind whipping around me. I haven’t felt this kind of instant attraction since... well, ever.
Five things about myself in fifteen minutes?” Axel leans back slightly, his broad shoulders shifting under his perfectly tailored charcoal suit, the fabric stretching across his chest before settling into place. His fingers—long, with neatly trimmed nails—tap thoughtfully against the polished mahogany of the bar. “That’s quite the challenge, Della.”
The way he says my name—lingering on the first syllable, his voice dropping an octave on the second—sends ashiver from the nape of my neck all the way down my spine. I take a slow sip of my dirty martini to hide my reaction, the cold glass pressing against my lips, but the juniper bite of the gin does nothing to cool the heat blooming across my cheekbones and the tips of my ears.
“I’m sure a man like you is up for it,” I say, surprising myself with my boldness as I set down my glass, leaving a perfect crescent of lipstick on its rim. Something about his presence—the gravitational pull of him—makes me feel both deliciously vulnerable and recklessly brave.
