PART 2: SHE ENTERED THE WRONG HOTEL ROOM AND WOKE UP BESIDE THE CITY’S COLDEST MILLIONAIRE CEO

PART 2 — The Job He Said Was Professional

He looked at me, processing.

Then his eyes traveled over my body slowly, very slowly, from my wrinkled T-shirt to my bare legs. One eyebrow rose, and there was something almost amused in his expression now.

“Clearly,” he said, his tone pure sarcasm.

His gaze lingered on me longer than would be polite.

“And you decided to sleep with me.”

“I didn’t decide. It was dark. I was tired.”

He tilted his head, sniffing the air between us like a predator sizing up prey.

“And drunk.”

“Slightly dizzy,” I shouted, indignant. “There’s a difference.”

“Oh, sure.” His sarcasm was sharp enough to cut. “So let me understand. You walked into the wrong room, didn’t notice there was a person in the bed, and still fell asleep.”

I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again.

“I guess that… yes.”

A smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

Slow.

Dangerous.

“Impressive level of awareness.”

“Sorry

for not expecting a strange man in the bed.”

“In your room, it would be strange,” he retorted, crossing his arms over his bare chest in a way that was absolutely unfair. “In mine, I’m expected.”

“You’re impossible.”

His smile widened, cold but sexy in an annoying way.

“I hear that a lot.”

I was about to respond when I realized, truly realized, that I was still in my panties. He was still looking, and he was not hiding the fact that he was looking.

“Stop looking,” I ordered, crossing my arms over my body.

“Hard to when you’re seventy percent exposed in my room,” he answered without a shred of shame.

“I’m not. Where are my clothes?”

He pointed casually.

My dress was thrown near the bathroom, my shoes scattered across the floor as if I had performed a striptease on my way to the bed.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

I ran across the room, grabbing my things while feeling his gaze glued to me.

“Enjoying the view?” I asked sarcastically, still crouched down as I picked up a shoe.

“Tremendously,” he answered, and there was not a trace of shame in his voice.

I started getting dressed with my back to him, holding the dress against my body.

“At least turn around.”

“Why?” There was pure amusement in his voice now. “I already saw everything tonight.”

I froze with the dress half on.

“We didn’t—”

“No,” he interrupted, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?”

“You were available. I’m a man. Simple math.”

I finished putting on the dress with furious movements.

“You’re disgusting.”

A low, dangerous laugh.

“I’m honest.”

I turned to face him, now fully dressed and trying to recover some dignity.

“Who are you anyway?”

“Grayson Cross.”

The name hit me like

a train.

“The CEO of Cross Enterprises?”

An arrogant smile.

“Impressed?”

“Horrified,” I answered with complete honesty. “Rich doesn’t mean decent.”

His smile changed, becoming genuine for a second.

“True. And you?”

“Norah Hayes.”

“Profession?”

“Event planner.”

He tilted his head, assessing.

“Ah. So you walk into wrong rooms professionally.”

“Only when I’m exhausted from working.”

I went for the door, needing to get out of there before I died of embarrassment or did something stupid like look at his abs again.

“Sorry for the mistake.”

“Mistake,” he repeated.

Then he stood up, wearing only black boxers, his body completely on display.

My eyes dropped, shot back up, then dropped again.

“Damn it. Don’t you have clothes?”

“I sleep like this,” he said, absolutely comfortable with his partial nudity. “Problem?”

“Yes. No. Just bye.”

I put my hand on the doorknob, ready to run and never look back.

But then he moved fast, far too fast for someone who had just woken up. His hand slammed against the door above my head, blocking my exit.

I was trapped between him and the door. I could feel the heat of his body against my back, his scent surrounding me, something woody, expensive, and masculine.

“In a hurry?” His voice was low now, dangerously close to my ear.

“Yes. I need to go.”

“Without coffee?” he asked, and there was something almost playful there. “How rude.”

I turned my head to look at him.

Terrible mistake.

Now we were far too close.

“Rude? You called me—”

His finger touched my lips, soft and silencing.

“Shh. Too loud for the morning.”

Electricity ran through my entire body from that single touch. Our eyes met, gray against green. His breath mixed with mine. The world became very small and very hot.

“Grayson,” I managed to say, and it sounded like a warning.

“Norah,” he said, testing my name on his tongue as if tasting it.

“I need to go.”

“Do you?”

He challenged me without moving an inch.

“Yes.”

Finally, he stepped back, but the smile remained.

“Then go.”

I opened the door so fast I almost tripped. I left without looking back, hearing his low laugh echo down the hallway.

Outside, I leaned against the wall and tried to catch my breath. My heart was pounding like I had run a marathon.

I looked at the plaque on the door.

I walked a few steps down the hallway until I found my room.

Not 2408.

I put my hands over my face as the weight of the situation finally crashed down on me.

I had slept beside Grayson Cross.

I took a deep breath. He was impossible and gorgeous and annoying and completely, absolutely impossible.

But as I stood there, still feeling the ghost of his touch on my lips, a traitorous part of me whispered that I had liked it.

Damn it.

I had liked it.

As soon as I got into my actual room, 2480, I threw my bag on the floor and grabbed my phone. My hands were shaking slightly as I searched for June’s contact. I needed to talk to someone. I needed to process what had just happened.

She answered on the third ring, her voice husky with sleep.

“Norah, it’s seven in the morning.”

“June,” I practically screamed into the phone. “I slept with the wrong man.”

There was silence on the other end.

Then she said, “Details. Now.”

I told her everything. Absolutely everything. The room mix-up. Waking up next to him. The absurdly perfect body. The impossible comments. The unbearable arrogance. The more I talked, the more surreal the whole situation became.

“Wait, wait,” June interrupted, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “You slept with Grayson Cross?”

“Next to,” I corrected quickly. “Not with. There’s a difference.”

“Still, Norah. He’s gorgeous and a billionaire. Did you see the magazines? That man is—”

“Impossible,” I cut her off, starting to pace back and forth across the room. “Arrogant. Cocky. He keeps staring at me and making comments and being… him.”

“Cocky how?” June asked, obvious curiosity in her voice.

“Staring at me. Commenting about my body. Saying it was unfortunate that nothing happened. Who says that?”

June laughed loudly.

“You liked it.”

“I did not.”

“Liar.”

“June.”

“Norah Hayes, I’ve known you for ten years. You are interested. Admit it.”

I sat on the bed and ran my hand through my hair.

“He’s impossible,” I repeated, but this time it sounded weaker and less convincing.

“And impossible can be interesting,” June sang. “Keep me updated, okay? I want every sordid detail.”

“There won’t be any sordid details.”

“We’ll see.”

Two hours later, I showered, got ready, and headed down to the hotel café because my stomach was growling embarrassingly. I needed coffee urgently, and food. Lots of food to absorb the residual alcohol still circulating in my system.

The hotel restaurant was everything expected from a five-star place: massive buffet, fresh flowers, attentive waiters. I went straight for the coffee machine, ignoring everything else.

Coffee first.

Humanity later.

I was filling my cup when a familiar voice sounded behind me.

“Sleeping well these days?”

The cup almost fell from my hand. Hot coffee splashed onto the counter. I turned so fast I nearly twisted my neck.

Grayson Cross stood there in a perfectly tailored gray suit, hair styled, coffee in hand, that irritating smile on his lips as if he had not seen me in my underwear two hours earlier.

“You,” I managed to say, hating how high-pitched my voice came out.

“Me,” he confirmed, looking extremely amused by my reaction.

“What are you doing here?”

“Having coffee,” he said, raising his cup. “Daily strange habit.”

“In my hotel?”

One eyebrow rose.

“Our hotel. I’m staying here too, in case you forgot, considering you slept in my room.”

I felt my face catch fire.

“Of course you are,” I muttered, turning back to my cup and trying to ignore his presence beside me.

“No hangover?” he asked, moving closer. “Impressive.”

“I wasn’t drunk.”

“Of course. Sober women always walk into the wrong rooms in the middle of the night.”

“It was one mistake.”

He leaned in, too close to be appropriate in a public restaurant. I could smell him again. Woody. Expensive. Disturbing.

“Delicious mistake.”

My eyes widened.

“Delicious?”

“Waking up next to a beautiful woman? Yes. Very delicious.”

I was blushing. I could feel the heat rising from my neck to my cheeks.

“You can’t talk like that.”

“I can,” he said simply. “I say what I want.”

“Arrogant.”

His smile widened, confident.

“There’s a difference.”

I grabbed my cup, ready to flee to the farthest table possible. Then his tone changed. It became more serious, more professional.

“Actually, good running into you.”

I stopped, suspicious.

“Why?”

“I need an event planner.”

I blinked.

“What event?”

“Charity gala next month.”

He spoke casually, as if asking me to pass the salt.

“And you want me?”

“Your portfolio is impressive,” he said.

There was something different in his gaze now: assessing, professional.

“I checked.”

My mouth fell open.

“You looked me up?”

“Due diligence,” he replied, shrugging as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“That’s stalking.”

“That’s business.”

He took a sip of his coffee, eyes still fixed on me.

“So? Interested?”

“I don’t even know the details.”

“I’m paying fifty thousand dollars. Full event. You plan everything.”

I stopped breathing.

Fifty thousand dollars.

“Problem?”

“That’s a lot.”

“It’s standard for me.”

So casual. Like fifty thousand dollars was pocket change.

“Why me?” I asked, needing to understand.

Grayson looked at me. Really looked, those penetrating gray eyes searching my face.

“Because you’re good. And because I want you.”

My heart jumped.

“Want me professionally?”

The cocky smile returned.

Slow.

Dangerous.

“Of course. What else?”

There it was again, the traitorous blush rising up my face.

“Fifty thousand dollars is tempting.”

“Then accept.”

“I have conditions,” I said quickly, before I could regret it.

He looked genuinely amused.

“What conditions?”

“No dirty comments. No teasing. Professional.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

“I won’t take the job.”

He studied me for a long moment, then sighed dramatically.

“Fine. Professional.”

But there was something about the way he said it, a gleam in his eyes that made me completely suspicious.

“Seriously?”

“Completely,” he said, and I could swear I saw him cross his fingers behind his back.

Three days later, I was in New York, in his office on the twentieth floor of a glass skyscraper with a view of Manhattan that only the stupidly rich could afford.

The receptionist, an elegant woman with glasses, smiled when I gave my name.

“Ms. Hayes, Mr. Cross is expecting you. Last door down the hall.”

My stomach twisted.

Nerves.

Professional, Norah. This was work. Fifty thousand dollars. I could do this.

The office was exactly what I would expect from a billionaire CEO: huge floor-to-ceiling glass, mahogany desk, power emanating from every inch. Grayson sat behind the desk in a black suit, looking at something on his computer. He looked up when I walked in.

“Punctual,” he said, standing. “I like it.”

“Professional, remember?” I replied, keeping my voice steady.

“Trying,” he said.

But the look he gave me was anything but professional. It traveled over my navy-blue suit, lingering longer than necessary.

I sat in the chair across from his desk, crossing my legs and opening my laptop.

“So. Event details.”

We spent the next hour discussing the charity gala: five hundred people, modern elegance as the theme, and the budget.

“No limit,” I repeated, sure I had heard wrong.

“No limit,” he confirmed. “Make something incredible.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility.”

“You can handle it.”

It was not a question. It was a statement. Absolute confidence.

“Five weeks is tight, but doable,” I thought aloud, already doing mental calculations.

“Great. Weekly meetings here.”

I looked at him.

“Why can’t I just report by email?”

His smile was slow and deliberate.

“Because I prefer in person.”

“Grayson.”

“Professional,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “I promise.”

But his fingers were definitely crossed behind his back again.

After that, the meeting moved on to choosing the venue. I had three perfect options, but Grayson insisted on visiting all of them together.

“I can go alone,” I argued.

“Of course you can,” he agreed easily. “But I want to see the places you choose.”

“I don’t know if that’s what you really want.”

He moved closer, the cocky smile back.

“Work can be pleasurable.”

My face burned.

“You’re impossible.”

“You’ve said that already.”

The event hall was perfect: high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, more than enough space. I walked through the empty hall, already visualizing everything.

“Stage here. Tables in a U-shape.”

Grayson was not looking at the space.

He was looking at me.

“You’re not helping,” I pointed out.

“I’m appreciating the venue.”

“You’re appreciating me working.”

“Focused,” he said. “Deliberate.”

A pause.

“Sexy.”

“Sexy? I’m working.”

“Multitasking,” he said, smiling. “I can admire while you work.”

I went to test the lighting, needing to get away from him before I did something stupid. The lights dimmed when I pressed the control, instantly changing the atmosphere.

“Too romantic,” I said.

I turned, and Grayson was there, very close.

When had he moved?

“Sorry,” I started, trying to step back, but his hand caught my arm. Gentle but firm.

“Don’t apologize.”

Our eyes met. My breath caught in my throat. The world grew very small, very hot, very Grayson.

“This is professional?” he asked, sarcasm and something hotter in his voice.

“It’s supposed to be.”

“Maybe professional is overrated.”

He was leaning in.

I should have stepped back.

I should have.

But I did not move.

I could not.

My phone rang, loud and shrill.

June.

Of course it was June.

The moment shattered like glass.

Later, in his car, driving back to my hotel, the silence was heavy.

“About before,” I started.

“Yes?”

“It can’t happen.”

“What?”

“This. Us. Whatever that was.”

Grayson kept his eyes on the road.

“What if I want it to happen?”

“Grayson, I’m your employee.”

“Contractor,” he corrected. “Temporary.”

“Still.”

He stopped the car in front of my building, turned off the engine, and turned to look at me fully.

“So, after the event?”

“What?”

“After. You’re not an employee. Can I try?”

My heart beat so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

“Try what?”

His look was intense, penetrating, honest.

“You.”

I got out of the car before I could do something idiotic like say yes.

Like kiss him right there.

“Good night, Grayson.”

“Good night, Norah.”

A pause.

Then, with that cocky smile, he said, “Dream of me.”

“I won’t.”

“You will,” he said, absolutely confident.

I closed the door and stood there watching him drive away, my heart still racing, my hands shaking.

“Damn,” I whispered to myself.

I really would.

By week two, it had been eight days since I accepted the best-paid and most complicated job of my career. Eight days of meetings with Grayson Cross that oscillated between tense professionalism and something much more dangerous.

I was in his office again, folder open, vendor samples spread across the massive desk. I had spent the previous night researching the best caterers in New York, comparing proposals and putting together perfect presentations. I wanted to impress him.

Professionally, of course.

Only professionally.

I began pointing to the first proposal.

“We have three main options for catering. The first is—”

I noticed Grayson was on his phone again, typing something, not even looking at me.

“Are you listening?”

“Mm-hmm,” he murmured, still focused on the screen.

I took a deep breath.

“Grayson.”

He finally looked up, putting his phone away with a sigh.

“Sorry. Continue.”

I went back to the samples, trying to ignore how much he unsettled me with so little.

“The flowers for the centerpieces: orchids or roses? I need to finalize today.”

He looked at me, not at the samples.

“At you.”

My heart did that annoying jump.

“Me?”

“What do you prefer? Orchids or roses?”

I blinked, confused.

“That’s irrelevant. It’s not about what I—”

“It’s not irrelevant,” he interrupted, leaning forward. “I want to know. What do you prefer?”

There was something in his voice.

Genuine.

Like my opinion really mattered. Like I mattered beyond the work.

“Peonies,” I admitted quietly.

A slow smile spread across his face. Not the sarcastic smile. Another one, softer.

“Noted.”

Before I could process what that meant, the office door opened without warning.

No knock. No announcement.

Just opened.

A woman walked in.

Beautiful. Absurdly beautiful. Flowing blonde hair, impeccable dress, heels that made her legs look infinite, and a way of moving like she owned the place.

“Gray.”

Her voice was syrupy, too sweet to be natural.

I saw Grayson tense instantly. His shoulders stiffened, his jaw clenched.

“Vivien.”

She completely ignored his cold tone and walked straight to the desk, leaning in to kiss his cheek. He did not return it. He did not move. But she did not seem to notice, or did not care.

Then her eyes landed on me, assessing and cold despite the smile on her lips.

“And you are?”

“Event planner,” I replied, keeping my voice professional. “Norah Hayes.”

“Oh,” she said, managing to put so much disdain into one syllable. “The helper.”

I felt irritation crawl up my spine.

“Contractor. Not helper.”

Vivien ignored me, turning all her attention back to Grayson. She placed her hand on his arm, possessive and territorial.

“Gray, darling, did you forget our lunch?”

“We didn’t have lunch,” Grayson replied, his voice cold as ice.

“But we always do,” she insisted, squeezing his arm.

Then she looked at me again, smile sharp.

“We’re close. Very close.”

Discomfort grew in my chest. It was not jealousy. It could not be jealousy. I barely knew the man. Professional. This was work.

“I’ll—” I started, gathering my things.

“Stay,” Grayson said too quickly, too firmly.

Then, softer, “Stay, please.”

There was something in his voice I had never heard before. Almost vulnerable.

Grayson stood, removing Vivien’s hand from his arm with deliberate movements.

“Vivien, I’m busy.”

“With her?” Vivien asked, looking at me with so much contempt I almost stepped back.

“With work,” Grayson corrected, voice low and dangerous. “Which is more important than you.”

Vivien looked genuinely shocked.

“Gray.”

“Vivien,” he continued, relentless. “We broke up two years ago. Get over it.”

“But you still—”

“I don’t feel anything,” he cut her off. “Never felt much. Now leave.”

The silence that followed was heavy and awkward. Vivien looked between the two of us, her face red with humiliation and anger. Then she turned on her expensive heels and left, slamming the door.

Grayson ran a hand through his hair, sighing. When he looked at me, there was something almost apologetic there.

“Your ex?” I asked, breaking the silence.

“Unfortunately.”

“She’s intense.”

“She’s a problem,” he said, returning to his chair. “Ignore her.”

But I could not ignore it.

Not the way she had touched him.

Not the way she had spoken.

“She said you were close.”

Grayson looked at me directly, intensely.

“We were. Past tense. Present is different.”

“Different how?”

The words came out before I could stop myself.

“Present is you.”

The air left my lungs. I stared at him, unable to form words.

“Grayson.”

He realized what he had said. I saw the exact moment the vulnerability closed, the walls going back up.

“Forget it. Back to work.”

He grabbed a folder, changing the subject so quickly that I felt my head spin.

Two days later, I was in a meeting with one of the vendors Grayson had insisted on meeting personally.

Alex, the caterer, was young and charming, with a smile that probably worked on many women.

“Norah Hayes,” he said when we were introduced, taking my hand and holding it too long. “I’ve heard about your work. It’s amazing.”

“Thank you,” I replied, trying to pull my hand back politely.

Grayson sat in the chair beside me, watching, silent.

Very silent.

Alex started his presentation about the menu, but kept directing everything at me, ignoring Grayson almost completely.

“I thought we could discuss the details more intimately. Maybe over dinner.”

I blinked.

“Dinner?”

“Yes.” He smiled, leaning closer. “Professional, of course.”

But his tone suggested anything but professional.

“I—”

“She’s busy,” Grayson interrupted.

His voice was cold, icy, dangerous.

Alex looked at him, surprised.

“Mr. Cross, I was just—”

“I heard,” Grayson cut him off. “And she is busy with me.”

I looked at Grayson, shocked.

He was jealous.

“Grayson,” I tried. “He was just—”

His eyes met mine.

“Do you trust me?”

The question caught me off guard.

“Yes.”

“Then trust me.”

He turned back to Alex, his voice returning to a professional tone but remaining icy.

“Thank you for the presentation. My assistant will send our decision.”

Alex understood the dismissal. He gathered his things quickly and left, murmuring polite goodbyes.

As soon as the door closed, I turned to Grayson.

“What was that?”

“What?”

“You being rude.”

“Protecting,” he corrected, as if it were obvious.

“From what? He was polite.”

“He was flirting,” Grayson said, getting up from his chair and walking to the window.

“So what?”

“And I didn’t like it.”

Simple.

Honest.

Blunt.

“You don’t have the right.”

“I know.” He turned, frustration clear on his face. “I know, Norah. But I can’t stand watching another man look at you like that.”

My heart started beating faster.

“Like what?”

He took a step toward me.

“Like I look at you.”

The world stopped.

We stood there, looking at each other across the office, the tension so thick it felt physical.

“You’re…” I took a deep breath. “Jealous.”

I saw his jaw clench. Then he admitted it reluctantly.

“Apparently.”

“But we’re not—”

“We’re not,” he agreed. “But I want to be.”

“Grayson.”

He raised his hand, cutting off my words.

“Forget it. That was inappropriate. Sorry.”

I froze.

“You apologized.”

A small smile, without humor.

“Not used to it.”

“Not from you,” I admitted.

“Maybe you make me different,” he said quietly, as if revealing a secret.

The next day, I was in my temporary office at the hotel reviewing contracts when someone knocked on the door. A delivery person stood there with a huge box in his hands.

“Norah Hayes?”

“Yes.”

“Delivery for you.”

I took the box. It was heavy and fragrant.

“Who sent it?”

“No name. Just a card.”

I placed the box on the desk and opened it carefully.

The aroma hit me first.

Sweet, floral, familiar.

Peonies.

An absolutely beautiful arrangement of peonies in shades of pink and white. It must have cost a fortune.

I picked up the card with trembling hands.

You said peonies. I listened. G.

My heart did that annoying thing again.

I grabbed my phone and called him before I could convince myself otherwise.

He answered on the second ring.

“Grayson, the flowers—”

“Do you like them?” he asked, and there was anticipation in his voice.

“They’re beautiful,” I admitted, touching the soft petals. “But you didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

“Why?”

Silence lasted for a moment.

Then he said, “Because you deserve flowers. And because I was thinking of you.”

I closed my eyes, trying to control the emotion rising in my throat.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Norah.”

His voice was different, softer, less sarcastic, more genuine.

At the next meeting that afternoon, I walked into his office still thinking about the flowers.

“We need to talk about the budget for—”

“You’re different,” he interrupted.

I stopped.

“How?”

“Smiling.” He leaned back in his chair, studying me. “Because of the flowers.”

I felt the blush rising.

“Maybe.”

The smile he gave me was real. Not sarcastic, not cocky. Just happy.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Seeing you happy is good.”

I looked at him. Really looked. The arrogant man I had met in the hotel room, the cold CEO, was different now.

“You’re being weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Kind,” I said. “Sweet, even.”

“Problem?”

“No,” I admitted. “Just different.”

He stood and walked around the desk, getting too close to be professional.

“Maybe you deserve kind and sweet.”

At the end of the day, he insisted on driving me back to the hotel. It was becoming routine, a dangerously comfortable routine.

In the car, with the city lights passing by the windows, I broke the silence.

“Grayson.”

“Mm-hmm?”

“You’re changing.”

He glanced at me before returning his eyes to the road.

“Changing.”

“At first, you were impossible,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “And now…”

“Now?”

“Now you’re less impossible.”

A low laugh.

“Progress.”

“It is,” I agreed. “And it’s scary.”

“Why?”

I took a deep breath.

“Because I liked it when you were just annoying. It was easier to resist.”

I saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel.

“And now you can’t?”

The whisper came out before I could stop it.

“Not as much.”

Grayson stopped the car in front of my building, turned off the engine, and turned completely to look at me. His intense gray eyes seemed to penetrate, seeing much more than I wanted to reveal.

“Norah.”

“Good night, Grayson.”

I cut him off, getting out of the car too quickly, before I could do something stupid, before I could admit that I was not resisting anymore.

That maybe I had never really resisted at all.

By week three, the test dinner was scheduled for that night, and I was officially panicking. Fifty people, important investors, and the first time Grayson would be present during an event I had planned. The first time he would see my work for real, not just presentations and mock-ups.

I checked the décor for the tenth time. Flowers in the right places, lighting adjusted, tables impeccable. Everything perfect.

It had to be perfect.

“It’s going to be perfect.”

Grayson’s voice sounded behind me.

I turned and found him in a tuxedo.

My God. If he was already handsome in a suit, in a tuxedo he was absolutely unfair.

“How do you know?” I asked, nervousness leaking into my voice.

He moved closer, adjusting his tie while looking at me with that intensity that always disarmed me.

“Because you did it.”

The confidence in his voice, the absolute certainty, did something strange to my chest. Like he really believed I was capable of anything.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“Don’t thank me. It’s the truth.”

He touched my shoulder lightly, a small gesture that sent warmth through my entire body.

“Breathe. You’ve got this.”

The event started perfectly. The guests arrived, impressed with the décor and complimenting every detail. The food was excellent. The service impeccable. The background music at the right volume.

I had done it.

I had really done it.

When it was time for the speech, Grayson went up onto the small stage we had set up. All conversation ceased. All eyes turned to him. He had that presence, that natural magnetism that commanded attention effortlessly.

“Good evening, everyone. Thank you for being here,” he began, his voice firm and clear.

He spoke about the charity cause and the importance of the larger event to come. Then he stopped, his eyes searching for something at the back of the room.

Searching for me.

“But before I continue, I need to talk about something personal.”

Curious murmurs ran through the room. My stomach flipped.

What was he doing?

“This dinner wouldn’t be possible without one person. Norah Hayes.”

He was looking directly at me now.

“Besides having exceptional talent, she changed my life.”

I felt tears prick my eyes.

No. Not here. Not in front of all these strangers.

“I met her in an unusual way,” he continued, and amused smiles appeared among the guests. “And since then, every day has been better.”

Applause filled the room. I tried to hide behind a column, quickly wiping my eyes, but it was useless. Everyone was looking at me now.

When Grayson came down from the stage, I thought he would go back to mingling with the investors, but he came straight toward me.

That was when it happened.

One of the older investors, a man in his sixties with an inconvenient smile, intercepted me before Grayson arrived.

“Norah, right? The event planner,” he said, his voice slurred from drinking too much. “Beautiful and competent. Rare combination.”

I forced a polite smile.

“Thank you, sir.”

Then I felt it.

His hand on my waist, too low, too intimate, completely inappropriate.

I froze, disgust rising in my throat, my brain trying to formulate a polite but firm response when a presence appeared at my side.

Grayson, out of nowhere, as if he had materialized.

“She is,” he said, voice low and absolutely icy.

His hand gripped my shoulder, pulling me gently but firmly away from the investor.

“And busy.”

The man blinked, surprised.

“Sorry, Mr. Cross. I didn’t—”

“Don’t touch her.”

It was not a request. It was an order. The kind of order that made powerful men back down.

The investor paled and left quickly, disappearing into the crowd.

Grayson turned me to face him, hands on my shoulders, eyes searching my face.

“Are you okay?”

The genuine concern in his voice caught me off guard.

“I am.”

“Are you sure?”

He did not let go of my shoulders, as if he needed to touch me to make sure I was intact.

“Yes. Thank you for protecting me.”

“Always.”

The word came out like a promise. Absolute. Unbreakable.

I was starting to breathe normally again when I heard the voice.

That syrupy voice I had already learned to hate.

“Gray, what a surprise seeing you here.”

Vivien, of course.

Because my night would not be complete without her.

She was in a red dress that left little to the imagination, sky-high heels, perfect makeup. She walked straight to Grayson and kissed his cheek before he could pull away.

“Vivien,” Grayson said, his voice as cold as it had been warm before. “You weren’t invited.”

“But I’m always welcome at your events,” she protested, grabbing his arm with both hands.

I looked for June and found her near the bar. She had shown up as a surprise to support me. I walked over to her, needing to get away from that scene.

“Who is that?” June asked, looking at Vivien with obvious disgust.

“His ex.”

“And you’re not going to do anything?”

“What would I do?” I asked, trying to sound indifferent. “We’re nothing.”

June looked at me like I was an idiot.

“Girl, the way he looks at you, you’re something. Definitely something.”

Before I could respond, Grayson’s voice cut through the conversations around us, loud, firm, public.

“Vivien, let go of my arm.”

“But Gray—”

“No.”

He pulled away from her with deliberate movements.

“How many times do I have to say it? I don’t want you.”

The entire room was listening now. Murmurs. Curious looks.

Vivien turned red, humiliation and anger mixing on her face.

“Why?” she screamed, completely losing her composure. “Because of her?”

She pointed directly at me.

“Because you’re the past,” Grayson said, each word clear and definitive. “And annoying.”

Gasps moved around us. Someone stifled a laugh.

Then Grayson walked over to me in front of everyone. He stopped beside me, his hand finding my waist naturally, possessively. He looked at me, completely ignoring Vivien and the fifty pairs of eyes fixed on us.

“Dance with me.”

Security was already escorting a furious Vivien out when Grayson led me to the small dance floor. The music was slow, too romantic for the moment. He pulled me close, one hand on my waist, the other holding my hand.

We were very close.

Dangerously close.

“You dance well,” I commented, trying to break the tension.

“Surprised?”

“No. You’re good at everything.”

A smile.

“Almost everything.”

“Almost?”

He pulled me closer, his lips near my ear.

“Terrible at letting you go.”

I stopped breathing completely. My brain shut off. My entire body became hyperaware of his proximity, the warmth, the woody scent that was already becoming too familiar.

“Grayson.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Event’s not over. Professional.”

“That’s not it,” I managed to say.

He stopped dancing right there in the middle of the floor, with people around us. He simply stopped and looked at me.

“Then what?”

“I’m scared.”

“Of me?”

“Of us. Of how you make me feel.”

Something changed in his gaze. It became more intense, more vulnerable.

“How do I make you feel?”

“Like…” I searched for the words. “Like I shouldn’t.”

“Norah,” he said my name like a prayer. “Look at me.”

I looked. How could I not?

“I know I started all wrong. Arrogant. Cocky.”

“Impossible.”

“Yes, I was. But you changed that. You changed me.”

“Me?”

“You. Your smile. Your strength. The way you don’t let me intimidate you.”

“You do intimidate me,” I admitted quietly.

“But you don’t give up. I like that. I like you.”

He was leaning in slowly, giving me time to pull back.

But I did not pull back.

I could not.

I wanted that kiss more than air.

Our lips were almost touching when I remembered.

Public.

Fifty people.

Investors.

Work.

“Not here,” I whispered against his lips.

“Then where?”

“I don’t know. But not here.”

He pulled back, breathing heavily, eyes dark.

“Okay. Not here.”

When the last guest left, it was past midnight. I was exhausted but satisfied. The event had been an absolute success.

I started cleaning up, putting away some decorations that could be reused, when Grayson appeared beside me. No jacket now. Sleeves rolled up. Tie loosened.

He picked up a box and started helping.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he said simply.

We worked in silence, comfortable and natural, like we had been doing this for years.

“The event was perfect,” he said after a while.

“It was.”

“You’re perfect.”

“I’m not.”

He dropped the box and pulled me quickly, impulsively, against him. Before I could process it, I felt his lips on my forehead.

Soft.

Tender.

Nothing urgent or sexual.

Just sweet.

“Good night, Norah.”

I stood there frozen, my hand unconsciously touching the spot where he had kissed me.

“Good night.”

June drove me back to the hotel, and as soon as we got in the car, she exploded.

“Girl, that man loves you.”

“He doesn’t.”

“He does. I saw the way he looks at you, how he protects you, how he talks to you. The speech. The dance. Dismissing his ex in front of everyone.”

I leaned my head against the window, a goofy smile on my face.

“He’s different.”

“Different how?”

“Less cold. More real.”

“And you?”

I took a deep breath. The truth came out loud for the first time.

“I think I’m falling in love.”

June screamed so loudly I almost hit the car ceiling.

“Finally, you admit it.”

“But it’s complicated.”

“Love always is,” she said, more serious now. “But is it worth it?”

I thought about his smile. The way he looked at me. The way he made me feel safe and unsettled at the same time.

“Yes,” I whispered. “It’s worth it.”

To be continued… Click “PART 3” to read the final part: 👉 PART 3 👈