Contract Kisses Only

Chapter 4:Lemonade and Liability

​Leo’s POV

​The hand dryer was screaming. It was a high-pitched, metallic wail that felt like it was mocking me. I was currently bent at a ninety-degree angle, hovering my crotch inches away from the sensor, trying to get the warm air to hit the darkest patch of the water stain.

​"Come on, come on," I hissed, shifting my weight.

​It wasn't working. The angle was impossible unless I took my pants off, and since this was The Ivory Room at peak brunch hour, the bathroom was a revolving door of Salt City’s elite. I couldn't exactly stand here in my boxers while a city councilman washed his hands.

​I caught my reflection in the mirror. I looked insane. My hair was slightly damp, my sweater was clinging to my ribs, and I smelled like a giant, expensive lemon drop.

​Flash.

​I froze. In the reflection of the mirror, I saw a teenager in the doorway holding up a phone. He’d just caught the "Salt City King" mid-twerk under a Dyson Airblade.

​"Hey!" I barked, spinning around. "Delete that! Professional courtesy, kid!"

​The kid just smirked and ducked out. My heart sank. If that hit the internet, my parents wouldn't just freeze the trust fund; they’d probably have me legally declared a public nuisance. I took a deep breath, patted the damp fabric one last time, and straightened my spine.

​Think like Julian, I told myself. Julian wouldn't care. Julian would act like wet pants are the new trend.

​I walked back into the dining room, moving with as much swagger as a man with a cold, wet lap could muster. I slid back into the booth, flashing Evie a look that said I meant to do that.

​"You good?" she asked, her eyebrow arched so high it nearly touched her silver eyeliner. She was clearly holding back a laugh.

​"Never better," I lied, leaning back. "The lemon scent is part of my new fragrance line. It’s called Submerged. Very exclusive."

​Just then, the food arrived. The steak looked incredible, but the way Evie attacked that creamy pasta was a sight to behold. For a minute, the business talk stopped. We just ate. It was the most normal I’d felt in days. No cameras, no followers—just a girl who didn't like me and a steak that was perfectly medium-rare.

​"Okay," she said, dabbing her lips with a silk napkin. "So, the story is: We met at an art gallery opening a month ago. You were bored, I was unimpressed. You chased me for a week before I agreed to a coffee. We’ve been 'private' because you wanted to protect me from the Vane spotlight. Got it?"

​"Got it," I repeated, memorizing the details like my life depended on it. Because it did. "Art gallery. One month. I’m the romantic hero. You’re the mysterious intellectual."

​"Exactly." She signaled for the check. "The deposit needs to be in my account by midnight, Leo. I don’t pack until I see the zeros."

​I paid the bill—including a very generous tip for the waiter I’d nearly tackled—and we walked toward the exit. The cold Salt City air hit us, and I felt the dampness of my clothes start to freeze.

​"Well," I said, turning to her on the sidewalk. "I guess I’ll see you on the 20th for the—"

​"One more thing," Evie interrupted.

​Before I could ask what, she stepped into my space. She grabbed the lapels of my jacket and pulled me down. I expected a quick, polite peck—a "business" kiss to seal the deal.

​I was wrong.

​She leaned in, her lips soft but demanding. Her tongue brushed against mine, bold and practiced, and for a second, the world just... stopped. I could taste the lemon from the water on my own lips, mixed with the faint sweetness of her lip gloss. It was a deep, passionate, toe-curling kiss that made my brain short-circuit. I felt my face heating up, a flush spreading from my neck to my ears.

​When she finally pulled away, she looked completely unfazed. Her silver eyes were calm, though her breathing was just a fraction faster.

​"What was... what was that?" I stammered, my voice sounding like it belonged to a teenager.

​"Chemistry check," she said coolly, adjusting her coat. "We have a big performance coming up, Leo. If we’re going to convince your cousin and your parents, we can’t look like we’re afraid of each other. That was just a rehearsal."

​She turned and walked away into the crowd, leaving me standing there on the sidewalk, stunned, breathless, and very, very aware of the fact that my pants were no longer the only thing making me feel uncomfortable.

​Leo’s POV

​I don't remember the drive back. I don't remember the elevator ride.

​The only thing on a loop in my head was the feeling of her hands on my jacket and the way she’d tasted. I walked into my penthouse, kicked off my shoes, and headed straight for the master bathroom.

​I didn't even turn on the lights. I stripped off the ruined clothes and stepped into the shower, cranking the handle all the way to the blue side.

​The ice-cold water hit my skin, shocking my system, but it didn't help. Not really. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt her tongue against mine again.

​This is a mistake, I thought, leaning my forehead against the cold tile. This is a huge, expensive, dangerous mistake.

​I was supposed to be the one in control. I was the Vane. She was the hire. But as the cold water ran over me, I realized something terrifying: for the first time in my life, I wasn't worried about my parents or my followers.

​I was worried that fourteen days with Evie might actually ruin me.

Evie’s POV

​I didn't walk away. I marched.

​I put one foot in front of the other with the rhythmic, calculated grace of a woman who had just closed a high-level merger. My back was straight, my chin was high, and I didn't look back once. I couldn’t. If I turned around and saw the look on Leo Vane’s face, I was terrified the "Professional Pretender" mask would shatter right there on the sidewalk.

​My heart wasn't just beating; it was thundering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My lungs felt tight, as if the cold Salt City air couldn't quite reach the bottom of them.

​Succulent.

​That was the word that kept flashing in my mind, neon and intrusive. I had expected his lips to be thin, maybe a bit dry—the lips of a man who spent too much time talking and not enough time feeling. Instead, they had been impossibly soft, lush, and warm. And the way he had responded? He wasn't just a "pretty boy" who knew how to pose for a camera; he was a natural.

​I turned the corner, my knees suddenly feeling like they were made of gelatin. I spotted a wrought-iron bench tucked under a row of frost-covered trees and practically collapsed onto it.

​"Get it together, Evie," I whispered, pressing my cold palms to my burning cheeks. "It was a rehearsal. A business maneuver. A strategic asset."

​But my body wasn't listening to the "Accounting Major" side of my brain. My skin was still tingling where he’d touched me. I could still taste the faint, sharp tang of lemon and the expensive mint he must have popped before we sat down. The kiss had gone on much longer than I’d intended. I’d meant to give him a shock, a "welcome to the big leagues" moment to show him I wasn't some pushover he could charm with a trust-fund smile.

​Instead, I’d shocked myself. I’d stayed in the moment, deepening the kiss, letting my tongue explore his as if I were trying to memorize the taste of him.

​"Girl, you need to keep it strictly business," I hissed at myself, fanning my face with my hand. "Rule Number Four: Professionalism at all times. Do not make out with your boss. Do not catch feelings for a man who thinks 'responsibility' is a four-letter word."

​The problem was, Leo Vane was undeniably handsome. Not just 'i********:-filtered' handsome, but 'up-close-and-personal' stunning. He had this boyish vulnerability in his eyes that didn't match the cocky persona he projected to his followers. And for fourteen days, I was going to be his girlfriend. I was going to be in his space, in his family home, and apparently, in his arms.

​I looked down at my hands. They were still shaking.

​I had been in the foster system since I was six. I had learned to build walls that even the most determined social workers couldn't climb. I had survived on grit, scholarships, and the absolute refusal to let anyone see the "poor girl" underneath the polished exterior. This business—this "Social Strategy"—was supposed to be my final ticket to freedom. It was a means to an end.

​Money. That was all this was.

​I needed to pay for my final semester. I needed to move out of my cramped apartment and into a life where I didn't have to count every penny for a grocery run. Leo Vane was a paycheck with a nice jawline. Nothing more.

​I took a long, shaky breath, the cold air finally cooling the heat in my blood. I reached into my bag and pulled out my tablet. I opened the spreadsheet for Project: Vane Holiday.

​I added a new line item:

Surcharge: Extreme Chemistry / Emotional Labor.

​"If he wants a kiss like that in front of his cousin Julian," I muttered, my professional mask sliding back into place, "it’s going to cost him a lot more than just the daily rate."

​I stood up, my heels clicking sharply against the pavement. I was Evie. I was a professional. I didn't do 'accidental feelings.' I did contracts and credits.

​Leo Vane might be a billionaire, but he wasn't going to buy my heart. He was just renting my time. And by the time these fourteen days were over, I’d be the one walking away with the real prize: my future, paid in full.

​I started walking again, my pace steady. I had a library to get to and a mountain of accounting homework to finish. I couldn't afford to spend another second thinking about succulent lips and lemon-scented billionaires.

​But as I reached the subway station, I couldn't help but touch my lower lip with the tip of my finger.

​"Focus, Evie," I warned myself. "The only thing that should be hard at the end of this is the cold, hard cash."

​