The Heat Between Us

Chapter 1 continued

Their eyes locked again, and something in the air snapped tight—like a thread pulled taut between them. Tension. Hunger. Curiosity. Whatever it was, Ava felt it in her throat, in her chest, in the place just below her belly that fluttered to life.

Jul stood first. His movements slow, deliberate.

He stepped closer.

Ava stayed seated.

He was too close now—his shadow brushing hers, his scent rich and warm, like expensive cologne and city rain.

“I think you’re dangerous, Ava.”

She looked up at him. “You have no idea.”

And then, just like that, he walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that made Ava flinch. The silence that followed was thick—oppressive, even. She stood there for a moment, paintbrush still in hand, the scent of turpentine and lavender oil hanging heavy in the air.

She hated how much space he took up—even in absence.

Ava turned slowly toward the canvas, her fingers trembling. The painting was nearly finished, a stormy blend of colors meant to capture freedom, desire, chaos—but now it looked hollow. Just like her.

He hadn’t raised his voice. He never did. Jul didn’t need volume to cut someone down; his words were precise, sharp, calculated. And when he left… it was always like this. No slamming doors. No apologies.

Just a void.

Ava reached for the glass of red wine she’d been ignoring all night and downed it in two burning gulps. Her lips tingled. Her chest ached. What the hell was she doing, letting a man like that crawl inside her head?

Because he saw you.

Not just your art. Not your curves. He saw you. And that was the dangerous part.

She closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly. The problem wasn’t that Jul had walked out. The problem was how much she wanted him to walk back in.

Jul didn’t slam the door. He never did. Not when it came to her.

He stepped into the cool night air, his jaw tight, every muscle in his body wound like a spring. The city buzzed around him—horns, footsteps, laughter in the distance—but none of it touched him. Not really.

Ava Monroe had a way of peeling back his armor, word by word, glance by glance. And that was the problem.

She made him feel.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his tailored coat, pacing down the block like a man who had somewhere to be, when in reality, he was just trying to outrun his own damn heartbeat.

Her apartment door. Her voice. The way she looked at him like he was something more than the sum of his bloodline and bank account. Like she didn’t give a damn about his last name.

That should’ve been enough to make him stay.

But Jul had learned long ago—people who got too close always wanted something. And even when they didn’t, he still managed to ruin it.

He lit a cigarette, the flame flickering in the wind. He didn’t even like smoking. It was a habit from darker days, but tonight felt like one of those nights. He needed something bitter on his tongue to drown out the sweetness of her voice echoing in his head.

She hadn’t begged him to stay. That somehow made it worse.

Jul took a slow drag, staring up at the streetlight. “i***t,” he muttered under his breath—not at her. At himself.

He wasn’t afraid of commitment. He was afraid of her.

Because Ava Monroe didn’t want his empire.

She wanted his soul.

And f**k, he was dangerously close to handing it over.

By the time Ava caught her breath, Julian Blackwell was gone.

One moment he stood inches from her, the air between them thick with unspoken tension. The next, he vanished into the crowd like smoke, leaving only the echo of his words.

“We’ll talk again soon, Ms. Monroe.”

Not if. When.

She hadn’t even noticed him slip away—her focus still tangled in the way he looked at her. Not like a man admiring a painting, but like one who’d already decided how and where he’d hang it. Possessive. Certain.

The gallery buzzed on without him. A couple near the wine table debated the meaning of one of her abstracts. Her agent was charming a pair of collectors near the back. To everyone else, the night was a success.

To Ava, it felt like something had shifted.

She moved through the space like a ghost, thanking people, answering questions, smiling when she was supposed to. But beneath the surface, her mind spun.

Why had he come? Why her?

And why did it feel like this wasn’t over—like he’d only scratched the surface of whatever game he was playing?

Later, alone in the back room, she stood in front of her favorite piece—the one she had painted when sleep wouldn’t come and memories clawed at her skin. The one she almost didn’t show.

Julian had stopped at this painting longer than any other. He hadn’t said a word then—just looked at it like it told him something about her that even she didn’t understand.

Ava reached out and touched the edge of the canvas, fingertips brushing dry paint.

She hated him for walking away without asking for her number.

And hated herself more for wishing he had.