Page 45 of Coldhearted King

She puts down her empty glass. “Anyway, that’s enough about me. Why did you decide to go into the family business?”

I may have peppered her with questions, but I’m not particularly interested in answering any about me. Still, I guess I owe her the same honesty she gave me. “It wasn’t really a decision. We were born and raised into it.”

She nods, her eyes intent on mine. “Do you enjoy it?”

The question gives me pause. Do I enjoy it? It’s not really something I’ve ever asked myself. “I enjoy making decisions, being in control. I enjoy having power, and I enjoy having money.”

Her eyebrows rise and a smile flirts with the corner of her lips. “That sounds like something a rich and powerful man would say.”

I shrug. “It works for me.”

She laughs quietly, and it hits me then. This is the most relaxed I’ve seen her since we met. The two of us have spent every meeting either rubbing up against each other or rubbing each other the wrong way. As much as I enjoy seeing the sparks flash in her eyes when she’s angry, I like this side of her too.

“I guess I could get used to this,” she says as she runs her fingers over the seat’s soft cream leather. “If you have to fly, this is the way to do it.” Her eyes wander to the back of the plane, to the closed door behind me. “What’s back there?”

“The bedroom.”

Her eyes shoot back to me, and a faint blush tints her cheekbones. “Oh.”

I give her a lazy smile as I picture taking her into that room and making her cheeks flush for a different reason.

She looks down at where she’s fidgeting with her seatbelt.

Marigold returns to take our empty glasses and ask if we want something else. Delilah looks from Marigold to the bedroom door, then back to Marigold again, before her gaze lands on me. I can almost see the wheels turning in her mind. She’s making an assumption. Probably a logical one, but in this case, incorrect.

We both decline another drink, and after Marigold leaves, neither of us seems inclined to continue the conversation. Delilah pulls out her tablet again and goes back to work. I decide to join her, taking out my phone and answering the new emails that have come in. They never seem to stop.

Two hours later, the pilot lets us know we’re about to descend into O’Hare. Delilah stashes her tablet and gives me a self-conscious smile as she grips the armrests. I distract her by asking questions about her work. It seems to be effective, her shoulders relaxing and her expression becoming animated as she tells me about the first building she worked on and what her favorite design has been so far.

I’m so absorbed in watching her that the mild jolt of the plane’s wheels bumping down onto the tarmac surprises me.

Delilah also starts and looks around. “We landed?”

“I told you he was a good pilot.”

“You did. Thank you again for that.” Her lips curve up, and her green eyes sparkle. Something tightens in my chest. I can’t recall the last time someone smiled at me with such genuine happiness.

I look away, watching the airport pass through the window as the plane taxis off the runway. I’m not used to feeling something for the women I’m with, or have been with, in Delilah’s case. It’s...disconcerting. When we halt at the terminal, I unbuckle my seatbelt and wait for Delilah to unbuckle hers, then follow her out of the jet and down the stairs to the waiting car. We slide in next to each other and the driver starts the car, heading out of the airfield.

“We’ll go to the hotel and drop off our bags, then head straight to the site,” I say.

“Okay.” Her gaze skitters away from mine. Probably because I’ve avoided looking at her since she smiled at me on the plane.

When we get to our hotel, and I mean ours as in it’s a King-Group-owned hotel, we head straight to our adjacent rooms. After settling our things, we return to the car. As soon as we reach the site, Delilah is out the door.

There’s not a whole lot for me to get excited about—it’s an empty space between two other buildings and when I look at it, all I see are numbers, the potential for profit—but Delilah’s face glows as she turns around, looking up at the surrounding buildings, her eyes rising to the roofline.

“Can you picture it?” I ask.

She turns to me and the brightness of her smile sparks through me like a static shock.

“Yes. And I already have an idea to make the design even better.”

“What sort of idea?”

She points at an angle across the street. “The buildings on the diagonal are smaller. In that direction, the lower floors will get a better view. I’d like to try curving the northeastern corner of the hotel to maximize it.”

“And that’s going to cost me more money.”

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