Page 20 of The CEO's Sweetheart Deal
“Thank you again for what you said earlier,” he says softly, his voice breaking at the end.
“I… I think I’ve maybe been unfair to you.” I finally get the courage to turn and look at him, but as I do I lose my balance slightly, my heel catching in the grass.
My cocktail glass slips from my hand, shattering against one of the stone pavers that form a path across the lawn.
"Shit!" I drop to my knees without thinking, reaching to pick up the larger shards.
"Alice, don't—" Oscar starts, but it's too late. A sharp pain slices across my palm as a piece of glass cuts deep.
I pull my hand back, watching blood well up and spill across my skin. The cut on my palm isn’t deep or serious, but it’s bleeding and I feel like an idiot.
Oscar is kneeling beside me in an instant, his face tight with concern. "Let me see."
"It's fine," I insist, but he's already taking my wrist gently, examining the cut in the dim light.
"That's going to need cleaning," he says, his voice firm. "Come inside. I have a first aid kit."
"Really, it's not that bad?—"
"Alice." His tone brooks no argument. "You're bleeding all over your dress. Let me help."
I glance down and see that he's right — drops of blood are already staining the fabric of my cocktail dress. “Okay,” I agree. “Thank you.”
Oscar helps me to my feet, his hand warm and steady at my elbow. Sliding glass doors take us into a kitchen that's all gleaming stainless steel and white marble. It's bigger than my entire apartment and looks like it's barely been used.
"Do you ever actually cook in here?" I ask, momentarily distracted from the pain.
Oscar's lips curl upwards. "Occasionally. When I have time. My cook makes most of the meals, and she keeps the place spotless." He guides me to one of the barstools at the enormous island. "Wait here."
He disappears down a hallway and returns a minute later with a sleek first aid kit.
"That's a serious kit," I observe as he opens it to reveal neatly organized supplies.
"I like to be prepared." He pulls up another stool to sit directly in front of me, taking my injured hand in his. "This might sting a bit."
He works with gentle efficiency, cleaning the cut with antiseptic that makes me hiss through my teeth.
The kitchen is mostly dark, lit only by under-cabinet lights that cast Oscar’s features in warm gold and shadow. I find myself studying him — the strong line of his jaw now dusted with carefully maintained stubble, the slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes that weren't there in college, the way his lips press together in concentration.
He's aged well, damn him.
"Almost done," he says, reaching for a tube of antibiotic ointment. His fingers are surprisingly gentle as he applies it to the cut.
As he wraps the bandage around my palm, I'm struck by how surreal this moment feels — being here with him, a man who had such a profound impact on my life in more ways than one and who I assumed I would never see again. If someone had told me a month ago that this would happen, I'd have laughed in their face.
"There," he says, securing the bandage with medical tape. "Good as new."
But he doesn't let go of my hand, and I don't pull away. We sit like that for a beat too long, his fingers warm against my skin, his eyes on mine.
"Thank you," I say, my voice coming out softer than I intended.
"Anytime." His thumb brushes lightly over my wrist, and I feel my pulse jump in response. "Though maybe try not to make a habit of picking up broken glass."
I laugh quietly. "I'll do my best."
Through the windows, I can see the party continuing on the lawn, the guests now just silhouettes against the backdrop of the lake. The glass walls make it feel like we're still outside, but in our own private bubble, separated from the rest of the world.
It would be so easy to lean forward, to close the small distance between us. The thought comes unbidden, and I'm not sure if it's the alcohol or the intimacy of the moment, or just years of pent-up feelings finally breaking through, but suddenly I'mwondering what it would be like to kiss Oscar, not as the college kids we once were, but as the adults we've become.
