[Adelaide Knowles]
I’m lying up, sprawled on Christian’s couch. One leg hangs over the armrest at a crooked angle, the heel of my boot tapping the cushion every now and then like impatience is a drum I’ve mastered. His suit jacket is draped loosely over my waist, the fabric still holding the faint warmth of his body and the sharper scent of his cologne. A book covers half my face, doing nothing to stop the boredom that’s trying its best to kill me slowly.
Christian insisted—no, commanded—that I stay in his office, while he handled emails and calls with that deep, focused frown he wears like a second skin. It’s funny watching him like this: sleeves rolled, jaw sharp with concentration, acting like we’re in the middle of a board meeting, save for the sight of me lounging, eating my feeli
