Page 17 of The Placeholder
The invitation sends a thrill through me. A weekend away, just the two of us. “That sounds wonderful.”
We reach the bistro, a charming corner spot with blue awnings and window boxes spilling over with red geraniums. Over brunch—eggs Benedict for me, steak and eggs for him—Axel asks about my work.
“Tell me about this women’s health project you mentioned,” he says, leaning forward with genuine interest as I cut into the perfectly poached egg.
I smile, warmth spreading through my chest that he remembered such a small detail from our earlier conversations. “It’s a pro bono campaign for a non-profit that provides healthcare to underserved communities—women who can’t afford regular screenings or prenatal care.” I lean forward, my fingers tracing the condensation on my water glass. “We’re designing their entire marketing strategy from scratch—digital presence, fundraisingmaterials, everything. It’s consuming my life right now, but in the best way.”
“That’s impressive,” he says, his blue eyes intent on mine, crinkling slightly at the corners with genuine admiration. His forearms rest on the table, strong and tanned against the crisp white tablecloth. “What made you take it on?”
My throat tightens as I tell him, “My mom had breast cancer when I was in college.” I trace the rim of my water glass, remembering the antiseptic hospital corridors, the way her chestnut hair—so like mine—had fallen out in clumps on her pillow. “She survived because she had access to excellent care and early detection. Not everyone’s that lucky.”
Axel reaches across the table, his large hand covering mine. His palm is warm and slightly calloused, his fingers long enough to curl protectively around my smaller ones. “She raised an amazing daughter.”
The simple compliment blooms inside me like the geraniums spilling from the window boxes outside, a warmth that spreads from my chest to my fingertips. We spend hours talking beneath the bistro’s copper pendant lights, our empty plates pushed aside, coffee cooling in porcelain cups. I tell him about the advertising campaign that won my firm a Clio Award last year; he describes the adrenaline rush of evacuating a client from a compromised hotel in Dubai. We debate the ending of a novel we’ve both read and discover we’ve both dreamed of seeing the Northern Lights. The conversation flows effortlessly, punctuated by lingering glances that make my skin flush and brief touches—his fingers brushing mine as he passes the salt, my knee accidentally grazinghis under the table—that send electricity dancing across my skin.
After brunch, we wander through Central Park, stopping to watch a street performer juggle, pausing by the lake where model sailboats catch the afternoon breeze. With each passing hour, my awareness of him heightens—the way his shoulder brushes against mine as we walk, the deep rumble of his laugh, the protective way he positions himself between me and the street.
By late afternoon, when he suggests getting groceries so he can cook dinner at my place, I’m practically vibrating with anticipation. We select ingredients at the gourmet market on Broadway—fresh pasta, heirloom tomatoes, a bottle of crisp white wine—his hand resting at the small of my back as we navigate the narrow aisles.
The walk back to my apartment is filled with a delicious tension. Axel carries the grocery bags in one hand, the other firmly holding mine, occasionally lifting it to his lips for a brief kiss against my knuckles that sends shivers racing up my arm.
When we reach my building, I fumble slightly with the keys, hyperaware of his closeness, the scent of his cologne mingling with the warm summer air. We step into the fabulous marble foyer, and I turn to take the grocery bags from him.
In one fluid motion, Axel sets the bags on the floor and pulls me into his arms. His hands frame my face with surprising gentleness for such a powerful man, his thumbs tracing the curve of my cheekbones.
“I’ve been wanting to taste these lips all day,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire.
And then his mouth is on mine—firm, insistent, butinfinitely tender. The kiss deepens as his arms encircle me, drawing me against the solid wall of his chest. My hands slide up to his shoulders, feeling the strength beneath his shirt as his tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entrance.
I part my lips on a sigh, and the world narrows to this moment—the heat of his mouth, the taste of him, mint and coffee and something uniquely Axel. His hands span my waist, lifting me slightly so I’m pressed fully against him, and I feel the low groan that vibrates through his chest.
When he finally pulls back, his blue eyes have darkened to midnight, his breathing as uneven as mine. His thumb brushes across my lower lip, now tender from his kiss.
“I’ve been thinking about doing that since the moment I saw you at Roman’s,” he confesses, his voice husky. “But you said slow, and I respect your boundaries.”
I curl my fingers into the fabric of his shirt. “I’m starting to think slow is overrated.”
A smile tugs at his lips before he leans in again, this time trailing kisses along my jawline to the sensitive spot below my ear. “We have all the time in the world,” he whispers against my skin. “But right now, I should probably get those groceries into the refrigerator before they spoil.”
I laugh, breathless and dizzy from his kisses. “Always the practical one.”
He retrieves the bags from the floor, following me into the kitchen where the late afternoon sunlight streams through the windows, turning everything golden. As he unpacks the groceries, moving around my kitchen withunexpected familiarity, I watch him and think that some things—the best things—are absolutely worth the wait.
CHAPTER 9
AXEL
Idice the garlic with practiced precision, the knife moving in a blur across the cutting board. This is my element—controlled, methodical, attentive to detail. The same skills that make me an excellent bodyguard translate surprisingly well to the kitchen. I glance up to find Della watching me from her perch on the barstool, her chin resting on her palm, those mesmerizing hazel eyes following my every move.
“Wine?” I ask, setting down the knife and reaching for the bottle of Pinot Grigio we picked up earlier.
“Please,” she says, and the single word carries a warmth that settles in my chest.
I pour the pale gold liquid into her glass, then slide it across the marble countertop toward her. Her fingers brush mine as she accepts it, and even that fleeting contact sends electricity through my veins.
“You’re surprisingly at home in my kitchen,” she observes, taking a sip. The wine leaves a slight sheen on her lips that I find myself staring at.
“I like cooking,” I reply, turning back to the stove where fresh tomatoes are simmering with basil and olive oil. “It’s... meditative.”
