Chapter 1 - The Six-Week SentenceThe espresso machine hissed, sputtering a dark, aggressive stream into Nora’s ceramic mug.
Six weeks.
The number echoed in the cavernous silence of Claire’s Tribeca kitchen like a prison sentence. Six weeks of sharing a penthouse suite with a man whose rejection she had engineered, whose memory had haunted her late nights for a decade, and whose damp skin she had accidentally collided with less than twelve hours ago.
“She’s out of her mind,” Nora muttered, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the coffee drip. “I am not living under the same roof as you for a month and a half. I’ll rent an Airbnb. I’ll move back to my apartment. I’ll sleep in a supply closet.”
“Your apartment is sublet for the semester while you’re helping with the wedding coordination, remember?” Adrian’s voice was entirely too calm, rich and low in the morning quiet. “And every decent hotel in Manhattan is booked solid because of the autumn fashion conventions. Claire checked. Or, more accurately, she didn’t check because she already knew.”
Nora turned around, leaning against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest. She took a slow sip of the bitter espresso, using the heat to anchor her frayed nerves.
“You could say no to her.”
“And miss the spectacle of my little sister’s wedding? Never.” Adrian set his coffee down, the ceramic clicking against the marble. He stepped closer, closing the distance between them with a deliberate, unhurried stride. “Besides, why are you running, Nora? Afraid of a little proximity?”
“I’m not running from anything,” she snapped, her chin lifting defiantly. “I just prefer my living spaces free of corporate takeovers and uninvited ghosts from my past.”
“A ghost,” he repeated, a slow, dangerous smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Is that what you think I am? Last night on the floor, you didn't feel much like a ghost. You felt remarkably solid.”
Heat rushed up Nora’s neck, blooming hot and bright across her cheeks. She hated how easily he could dismantle her composure with a single, well-placed callback.
“That was an accident. A physics problem involving a slippery floor and bad timing.”
“Right.” Adrian stopped just inches away, tall enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his piercing green gaze. “Accidents happen. But let’s be clear about one thing, Nora Bennett: we are going to be living in very tight quarters for the next forty-two days. You can pretend I don’t exist, or you can accept that we’re both trapped here by Claire’s matchmaking conspiracy. But don't ever pretend you're indifferent to me.”
Before she could think of a sufficiently devastating retort, the elevator chime chimed, and the heavy private doors slid open.
May you like
Claire Whitmore stepped out, wrapped in a silk designer robe, holding a multi-colored smoothie and wearing an expression of supreme, unadulterated innocence.
“Good morning, family!” Claire beamed, looking back and forth between them. “Oh, look at you two already up! Bonding over coffee. I knew putting you both in the guest wing was a stroke of genius.”
