Page 12 of The Placeholder
He chuckles, a deep rumble that vibrates through the air between us like distant thunder. The sound settles somewhere beneath my ribs, warm and resonant. “Alright. Number one: I served eight years in the army before starting my security firm with my brother.”
"That explains the...” I gesture vaguely at his impressive physique—the broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the veins visible beneath golden skin, the way he holds himself with perfect posture even when relaxed. I immediately regret it when his eyebrow quirks up, a slow arch that transforms his expression from merely attentive to devastatingly amused.
“The what?” he prompts, leaning slightly closer, the subtle notes of his cologne—sandalwood and something citrusy—intensifying with his movement.
The vigilance,” I recover, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, my fingertips lingering at the sensitive skin of my neck. “You noticed me the moment I walked in, after all.”
"I notice everything,” he says, his voice dropping to a velvet rumble that seems to vibrate through the polished mahogany between us. His pupils dilate slightly, turningthose navy eyes almost black at the centers. “But I’ve never noticed anyone quite like you.”
The intensity in his gaze pins me in place, heat blooming across my skin like watercolor on wet paper. The cacophony of the crowded bar fades to white noise. I clear my throat, the crystal stem of my martini glass suddenly slippery between my fingers. “That’s very smooth. Is that thing number two?”
He laughs again, a sound that reveals the edge of a dimple in his left cheek I hadn’t noticed before. “No, that was just the truth.” He leans forward, the subtle scent of his cologne—something expensive and earthy—enveloping me. “Thing number two: I never went to college, but I read at least one book a week. Currently working through Dostoyevsky’s complete works.”
"Russian literature?” I raise an eyebrow, watching the way the amber light catches on his signet ring as he traces the rim of his whiskey glass. “That’s unexpected."
I’m more than what meets the eye,” he says with a hint of self-deprecation, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to reveal the edge of that dimple again. “Thing number three: I’ve never broken a promise. Not once in my life.”
The conviction in his voice catches me off guard, resonating through me like a tuning fork struck against stone. His eyes—those deep navy pools—hold mine without wavering, not a single blink betraying uncertainty. Most men I’ve known—especially Jared—treated promises like suggestions, malleable things to be reshaped when inconvenient, discarded tissue-thin excuses piling up between us over seven years.
“That’s... rare,” I say softly, my fingertip tracing a droplet of condensation down my martini glass.
“It shouldn’t be.” His jaw tightens slightly, the tendons in his neck becoming more defined beneath his tanned skin. He taps his signet ring once against the bar, a deliberate punctuation. “A man’s word should mean something.”
The raw honesty in his voice touches something deep inside me, like fingers pressing against a bruise I didn’t know I had. I find myself leaning closer, the edge of the bar pressing into my ribs, wanting to know everything about this man, not just five carefully selected facts.
“Number four,” he continues, checking his watch—a heavy timepiece with a leather band worn soft at the edges. “I can speak three languages fluently, and I’m learning a fourth. Comes in handy in my line of work.”
"Which languages?” I ask, tracing the condensation ring my glass has left on the polished wood between us.
“Spanish, Arabic, and Russian,” he says, each word rolling off his tongue with the confidence of someone who knows exactly who he is. “Working on Mandarin now.” His fingers drum once, twice against his whiskey glass, leaving perfect fingerprints on the crystal.
I’m about to ask him more when I notice his expression shift, his features rearranging themselves into something carved from stone. The playfulness evaporates from his eyes, replaced by an intensity that makes the air between us feel electrically charged. He leans forward, close enough that I can see the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow, his gaze locked on mine like twin anchors.
“And number five,” he says, his voice dropping to aregister that seems to vibrate directly against my sternum. “I’m the man who’s going to marry you.”
My eyes fly open so wide I swear I can feel my lashes brush against my brow bone, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe, my lungs frozen mid-inhale. The declaration hangs between us like a tangible thing, impossible and somehow inevitable at the same time, vibrating in the narrow space between our bodies. My lips part to respond—though God knows what I would say, my tongue suddenly thick and useless—when movement at the entrance catches my eye.
Liana.
Her copper hair gleams under the bar lights as she spots me and begins weaving through the Friday night crowd, her face lighting up with recognition, eyebrows raised in curious appraisal of the man beside me. I have thirty seconds before she reaches us, thirty seconds to process what just happened.
“I—” I begin, but Axel cuts me off gently, his large hand moving slightly closer to mine on the polished mahogany, not touching but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.
Your friend’s here,” he says, nodding toward Liana, his eyes never leaving mine, as if memorizing every fleck of color in my irises. The deep navy of his gaze holds me captive, intense yet somehow gentle. “But before she arrives, I’d like your number. I want to call you tomorrow to set up a proper date.”
I fumble for my phone, fingers suddenly clumsy against the smooth glass screen as I unlock it and hand it to him. His hands—large, with neatly trimmed nails and that gleamingsignet ring—cradle my rose gold iPhone like it’s something precious. He inputs his number with confident precision, thumbs moving with military efficiency, then calls himself so he has mine. The entire exchange takes seconds, but feels monumental, like tectonic plates shifting beneath my feet.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he promises, his voice a low rumble that seems to reverberate through my chest as he hands my phone back just as Liana reaches us. His fingers brush against mine—warm, slightly calloused—sending electricity up my arm that tingles all the way to my shoulder.
I’m still trying to process what’s happening when Axel stands, unfolding his six-foot-plus frame until he’s towering over both of us like some golden-skinned Adonis in a tailored charcoal suit. He extends his hand to Liana with the perfect balance of confidence and respect, shoulders squared but expression open.
“Axel Warner,” he says, his voice smooth as dark chocolate. He extends a long-fingered hand, the cuff of his tailored charcoal jacket slipping back to reveal a flash of gleaming cufflink. “I was just keeping Della company while she waited for you.”
Liana’s eyes light up as she clasps his hand. Her auburn hair catches the bar lights in coppery glints. “Liana Crawford,” she replies, her tone warm. “Thanks for looking after my girl.”
He lets that warmth wash over him, then tilts his head with a slow, confident smile—perfectly straight teeth framed by a day-old stubble. I watch the subtle power shift in Liana’s posture as his charm flows over her like honey. He gestures to the bartender, who’s polishing aglass behind a row of flickering candles. “Please add their drinks to my tab for the evening.”
I clear my throat, cheeks warming. “That’s not necessary.”
