Chapter 17
(Madison’s POV)
…
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Okay. So maybe my lips had a minor, unplanned, slightly explosive collision with Steven McLeon’s face.
Maybe.
But was I going to die from the embarrassment? Absolutely not. I’d lived through worse. Like showing up to my high school prom in a borrowed dress that split in the middle of the Macarena. This? This was a Tuesday in my emotionally chaotic life.
Besides, it wasn’t that serious.
Right?
I strutted back into the living room with coffee in hand like I hadn’t just faceplanted into the most expensive jawline known to man. And there he was. Still on the yoga mat. Still shirtless. Still looking like a rejected Greek statue with issues.
And dear sweet creamy leche flan–he was pouting.
Not even subtly. Like, full–lip, brows–slightly–drawn, broody billionaire with an injured ego kind of pout.
“Relax, Romeo,” I said, walking past him with my coffee and zero shame. “You’re acting like it was your first kiss or something.”
He sputtered. “Excuse me?”
I turned slowly, sipped my coffee with grace I did not possess naturally, and added, “What? You’re making that face. The my–crush–stole–my–Hollister–hoodie face.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m not making any face.”
I pointed at him with my coffee cup. “You are. That’s full–on Hallmark Movie male lead face. Right before you dramatically stare out a window and whisper, ‘why do I feel this way?“”
He sat up straighter, insulted like I’d just questioned his manhood and his stock portfolio at the same time. “I am Steven McLeon. Women chase me. I don’t… I’m not some… some high school sophomore getting flustered over-”
“Over what?” I tilted my head, innocent as sin. “An accidental kiss? Wow. Look at you. One set of lips teleports into your orbit and suddenly you forget you’re the Calvin Klein Ad that broke the internet three years in a row.”
His cars went pink. I saw it. Oh, he hated that I saw it.
“It wasn’t just-!” he tried.
But I cut him off, wagging a finger. “Uh–uh. Don’t you dare say it was a moment. It was gravity. Not romance.
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Chapter 17
:
My lips did a pirouette and landed in the wrong galaxy.”
He stared. Open–mouthed. Like I’d just recited Shakespeare backwards.
So I did what every emotionally functional adult does in times of awkward tension.
I left the room. Head high. Back straight. Internally screaming.
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I stormed into the kitchen and leaned over the counter. Not to hide. Just… to breathe. Calmly. Like a composed woman. With dignity. And sizzling hot flashbacks of his damn mouth.
Because let’s be real-
That kiss? Was stupidly perfect.
Too perfect. The kind of accidental kiss that haunts your dreams at 2 a.m. and makes you consider writing diary entries like you’re fifteen again.
But nope. No way was I letting him know that.
Because I was Madison Freaking Luis. I didn’t swoon. I didn’t pine….But I might have kicked my feet a little once I was alone. Just a little. Maybe even giggled. Okay definitely giggled.
And then I slapped myself. Because no, ma’am. We are not catching feelings. We are professionals here.
Even if the man has abs that could cut through concrete and lips that tasted like expensive regrets.
Still. Professional. Mostly….Okay, 60%.
Fine. Forty. BUT I’M WORKING ON IT.
*****
The next morning, the sunlight was being dramatic again–flooding the penthouse like it wanted to bless the wealthy with extra Vitamin D. And who arrived with a breeze of Chanel No. 5 and a presence that made you check if your bra was on straight?
Regina Elise McLeon.
Yes. The Regina McLeon. Billionaire, Matriarch. Former model with cheekbones sharp enough to cut generational trauma. Wearing a cream power suit that screamed “I run empires before breakfast.”
“Good morning, darlings,” she sang, in that silky voice that hinted she probably dined with prime ministers
last week.
Steven groaned from the hallway in his brooding–but–freshly–shaved–and–still–unfairly–handsome state. I, on the other hand, was in my best post–yoga hoodie with eggshell on the sleeve.
Regina’s eyes sparkled the moment they flitted between the two of us. She didn’t say a word–but I saw it. The Look.
11:30 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 17
…
The look that mothers give when they know something happened.
There was tension.
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Glances. Steven stealing the remote just because my leg brushed his. Me refusing to pass the salt because he smirked too long. Normal stuff… you know… post–accidental–lip–collision behavior.
Regina clocked it all and, like the clairvoyant goddess she was, declared at 11:03 a.m., “I’m naming my future grandchildren Olive and Orion.”
I choked on my sparkling water.
Steven choked on nothing but his own pride.
“Mom-” he started.
“Oh please,” she waved him off. “I haven’t seen this much electricity since the Wall Street blackout. You two are practically steaming.”
We tried to deny it. Which made it worse.
Lunch arrived. From some expensive Michelin–starred place where steak costs the price of my monthly rent and water came in glass bottles that looked like they were kissed by mermaids.
I was mid–bite, about to experience medium–rare nirvana, when Regina looked at me–no, through me–and asked, “So. What happened between you two?”
Cue internal explosion.
Cue outside calm.
Cue… sass.
“Oh, you know,” I said, cutting my steak like it was no big deal. “I accidentally teleported my lips to your son’s mouth, and now he acts like I’m about to shotgun–wedding him.”
Regina lost it.
Laughed so hard, I genuinely feared for the diamonds on her wrist.
Steven groaned into his glass, muttering something about “emotional damage” and “unlicensed PTs with smart mouths.”
“It was an accident!” I threw my napkin at him. “Your yoga mat tripped me!”
“It’s a mat, Madison. Not a portal.”
“Then tell it to stop acting like one.”
“Tell your lips to watch where they fall!” he growled back with sass.
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Chapter 17
🙂))
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“Oh, so now my lips are GPS–enabled?!”
Regina clapped her hands. “This. This is what healing looks like. Petty bickering and passive flirting–Olive and Orion will have quite the bedtime story.”
Steven glared. I rolled my eyes. Regina toasted her rosé.
It was chaos. It was loud. It was… home.
And damn that steak was worth every second of flirty warfare.
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