Chapter 18
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Later that afternoon, Regina left with a satisfied smirk and a reminder to “hydrate for future tension,” whatever that meant. Honestly, that woman gave off retired spy energy. Like she knew what I dreamt last night and what Steven was secretly thinking.
(Probably about the banana again. Or my lips. Or both.)
The penthouse went quiet after she left, except for the soft jazz playing from the speakers that the butler probably turned on just to cover the awkward silence between me and the Brooding Exhibit A across the
room.
Steven was pretending to scroll through emails on his tablet like his life depended on it.
I, on the other hand, sat on the couch dramatically with my second leche flan of the day (thank you, Filipino takeout gods), trying not to look like I was reliving the words “Olive and Orion” on loop.
I peeked at him.
He peeked at me.
We were doing that awkward high school hallway thing again, except with a million–dollar sofa between us and decades of sarcasm on both sides.
“Okay,” I said, finally breaking the silence. “Are you going to keep pretending you’re not thinking about what your mother said?”
He didn’t even blink. “Nope. I’ve erased her entire visit from my memory.”
“Oh really?” I raised a brow. “So the part where she said I was glowing and you looked like you were one inappropriate yoga pose away from confessing your love–that didn’t stick?”
He coughed. “She said that?”
“Oh, she muttered it to her rosé. I have sharp ears.”
He turned toward me slowly, eyes narrowing in that dangerously sexy, billionaire–poster–boy way.
“So what if I was thinking about it?”
I blinked,
“Oh, no. We’re not doing this now.”
He smirked. “Doing what?”
“This! The confession–but–not–a–confession part where we make things complicated and ruin the vibe.”
“Oh, you mean the vibe where you landed on me lips–first, called it teleportation, and then walked out of the room like I caught feelings?”
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Chapter 18
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I blinked again. “Well, did you?”
He blinked.
I blinked.
:.
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We were two idiots blinking in a $40 million penthouse like we were filming a dramatic telenovela reboot.
Steven rolled closer, casually, like it was just another Tuesday and not the moment my heartbeat decided to attempt parkour.
“I might have,” he said, voice low, quiet, cocky. “Caught something.”
I tried to act unaffected. “Well, I hope it’s not contagious. I have PT gloves.”
“Too late.”
Oh damn. My cheeks went red. Rude.
He chuckled.
I stood up quickly. “Okay! No more banana metaphors. No more teleportation jokes. We are strictly PT and steak business from now on, got it?”
Steven smirked wider. “Sure. Just PT. With extra tension.”
I marched off to the kitchen, flustered and blushing and fuming in my overpriced Dior hoodie, while behind me, I heard him whisper just loud enough for me to catch:
“Olive and Orion, huh?”
- OH.
- HE.
DID.
NOT
I threw a throw pillow at him.
He caught it midair like a smug superhero.
And just like that, the war was back on.
But this time… with flirting involved.
Heaven help me. And my poor, sass–defenseless heart.
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Chapter 18
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A week passed. A full seven days of “this–is–not–flirting” PT sessions, meaningful glances over protein shakes, and daily bickering that sounded suspiciously like foreplay. I was almost convinced we were settling into a comfortable routine of unresolved tension and sexual denial, until…
Knock. Knock.
Cue doom.
I was in the kitchen–oversized white T–shirt, yoga pants, no bra, hair in a bun so messy it looked like it had survived a storm and a blackout. Holding a bowl of mangoes like it was my baby.
Then came the knock again. Sharp. Polished. With a kind of arrogance only three people on Earth could
possess.
I opened the door. And immediately wished I hadn’t.
There she stood.
Luciana Vane.
Singer. Supermodel. British screen goddess. Former fiancée of my Steven.
(Not mine. Not mine. Why did I say that?)
Tall. Glowing. Hair like royalty. Skin airbrushed by the heavens. Dress so tight it could’ve been painted on with Swarovski glue.
And me? A gremlin in loungewear.
Her lips curled. That fake, high–society smile they give when they’ve already decided you’re poor and irrelevant. She scanned me up and down like I was the help who spilled coffee on her diamond–encrusted
purse.
“Oh,” she said in that fake–posh accent. “And you are?”
I blinked. My mango bowl clenched tighter in my hands.
Before I could sass appropriately, Steven rolled in from the hallway–his brows a thunderstorm, his arms tense on the wheels of his chair like he was about to run her over for sport.
“What the hell are you doing here, Luciana?”
Ah. First–name–basis fury. Spicy.
Luciana’s gaze didn’t even flinch. “Stevie,” she purred. (Stevie?!) “Darling, it’s been too long. I was in the city for a shoot and thought… why not visit my favorite man?”
I snorted.
Audibly.
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Chapter 18
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Luciana glanced back at me, eyebrow twitching.
“Something funny, assistant?”
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“PT,” I corrected, licking my spoon and dragging it out dramatically. “Live–in private therapist. For the legs. And attitude. You should try it sometime.”
Steven coughed. Possibly from holding back laughter. Possibly from trying not to throw a mango.
Luciana’s smile dropped a degree. “Oh. So you’re the one helping him with his… condition.” She emphasized that last word like it had three STD letters attached to it.
I glared. “His condition’s improving. Unlike your personality.”
Her jaw twitched.
I was about to go for Round Two when I remembered the rumors.
The ones plastered in celebrity gossip blogs.
“McLeon’s Bedroom Nightmare–Luciana Ends Engagement Over Performance Problems!”
“McLeon Can’t Drive… or Perform? Sources Say Yes.”
Steven never commented. Never denied. Never played the victim.
But now, she was here. Full hair, full makeup, full fake sympathy–clearly hoping he’d forget how she humiliated him and welcome her back with open abs.
Not. Today.
Steven’s voice dropped low. Lethal. “Say what you came to say, Luciana. Or leave.”
She blinked, visibly shaken. “I just… wanted to see how you were doing.”
“You read the blogs. You thought I was broken. Thought I’d beg. Now you see I’m doing just fine and you want back in?” His jaw clenched. “Not happening.”
Silence.
Luciana looked at me. Then back at him. “This… thing with her… is temporary, I assume?”
Before Steven could respond, I stepped forward, dropped my mango bowl on the counter with a thud, and smiled sweetly.
“Actually, I live here. I cook for him. I make him laugh. I’ve seen things,” I added, letting the implication dangle like her dignity. “So unless you’re here to donate that purse to charity, kindly leave. This penthouse doesn’t have room for snakes in designer heels.”
Luciana flushed crimson. “You’ll regret talking to me like that.”
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Chapter 18
“Only thing I regret is not having popcorn for this visit.”
And with that, she stormed off–heels clicking like angry crickets on marble.
Steven exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for a year.
I turned to him. “Well, that was fun. Want mango?”
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He shook his head, then gave me that look. The one that made my toes curl in socks I bought secondhand.
“You always like that when you’re jealous?” he asked.
I gasped. “Jealous? Please. She looked like she walked out of a shampoo ad and straight into a personality void.”
He laughed. Hard.
And just like that… the mango bowl wasn’t the only thing warm and sweet in the room.
Game on, McLeon. Game. On.
AD
