CHAPTER 3: The Site
499 Words
The Henderson Building rose twelve stories of Art Deco splendor, its limestone façade weathered by decades of neglect. Elena stood on the sidewalk, tablet in hand, trying not to notice how Julian's reflection appeared in the glass beside hers.
"Structural integrity is better than expected," she said, professional mask firmly in place. "The terracotta details need restoration, and the lobby's marble—"
"Has water damage. I know." He was close enough that his arm brushed hers. "Show me what you'd do with the penthouse."
They rode the service elevator in silence, the tension thick enough to taste. When the doors opened, Elena stepped into a space that stole her breath—floor-to-ceiling windows, original parquet floors, a view of the river that made her heart ache.
"This could be spectacular," she whispered, already envisioning the restoration. "The original millwork is intact. We'd need to—"
"We?"
She turned to find him watching her, not the architecture. "Professional habit."
"Keep it." He moved closer, crowding her against the window. "I like hearing you say 'we.'"
"Julian." Her voice was steadier than she felt. "This is inappropriate."
"Is it?" He planted a hand on either side of her head, caging her without touching. "Three years, I dreamed about you in rooms like this. Wondering where you were. Who you were with. Whether you still wore my shirt to bed."
Her breath caught. She had, for months. Until the smell of him faded completely. "That was a long time ago."
"Was it?" His mouth hovered inches from hers, close enough that she could feel his warmth. "Because you smell the same. Gardenias and something uniquely you. I could find you blindfolded in a crowded room, Elena. I still know you. The question is whether you still know yourself."
She should push him away. Should remind him of boundaries and contracts and the thousand reasons this was catastrophic. Instead, when his lips brushed her jaw, she tilted her head back, offering access she had no right to give.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against her throat.
She didn't. She couldn't. His mouth found hers, and it was like no time had passed—better, because now there was an edge of desperation, of three years' accumulated hunger. He kissed her like he was starving, hands finally touching, sliding down her back to pull her flush against him.
The hardness of him against her stomach made her whimper. "Julian—"
"I know." He rested his forehead against hers, breathing hard. "Not here. Not like this." He stepped back, adjusting himself with a rueful smile. "But I'm not sorry."
"You should be." She smoothed her blouse with shaking hands. "This complicates everything."
"Life is complicated." He moved toward the elevator, pausing at the doors. "Dinner tonight. My place. We'll discuss the project timeline."
"That's not—"
"Seven o'clock. Don't be late this time." The doors closed on his smile, leaving her trembling and furious and, God help her, wanting more.
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