When Forbidden Feels This Good

CHAPTER 3

Scarlett’s POV

Three days of careful choreography. Three days of precision avoidance, like we were dancers who'd memorised each other's movements but never actually touched. I used the east wing bathroom while he showered in the west. I ate breakfast at seven; he ate at eight. When I was in the living room, he was in his office. When he was working in the garage, I was hiding in my bedroom like a coward.

It was exhausting.

It was also completely unsustainable.

Thursday afternoon found me sprawled on the couch in the living room, laptop balanced on my thighs, trying to focus on restoration research. The frescoes I'd left behind in Florence felt like they belonged to a different lifetime, a different person. Someone who'd had her life figured out. Someone who wasn't slowly losing her mind over a man she couldn't have.

Outside, the Texas sun beat down mercilessly. The air conditioning hummed, keeping the interior cool, but I couldn't shake the heat that seemed to live under my skin now. The heat that had nothing to do with weather and everything to do with dark eyes and calloused hands and the memory of almost.

I was so absorbed in my work that I didn't hear him come in.

"You're in my space."

I jolted, the laptop nearly sliding off my lap. Cade stood in the doorway, wearing dirt-smudged jeans and a white t-shirt that clung to his chest. His hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. There was a smudge of something, grease maybe, along his jaw.

He looked unfairly good.

"The living room isn't your space," I said, recovering. "It's communal."

"It's three o'clock. I always use the living room at three."

"Well, I didn't get the memo." I turned back to my laptop, dismissive. "There's another couch. Use that one."

For a moment, he didn't move. Then I heard his footsteps, felt the couch dip as he sat. Not on the other couch. On mine. The opposite end, sure, but still. My pulse kicked up.

"What are you doing?" I asked without looking at him.

"Sitting."

"On my couch."

"Our couch." His voice carried an edge of amusement that made my teeth clench. "Communal, remember?"

I risked a glance. He was sprawled in that carelessly masculine way men did, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, legs spread, taking up space as he owned it. Which, technically, he did. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back, and his throat exposed. I could see his pulse beating there, steady and strong.

My fingers itched to press against it, to feel his heartbeat under my touch.

"Hard day?" The question came out softer than I'd intended.

"The site inspection ran long. Contractor tried to cut corners on the foundation work." He didn't open his eyes. "Had to threaten to fire the entire crew."

"Sounds stressful."

"It's handled." He rolled his head to the side, eyes opening to pin me with that dark gaze. "What are you working on?"

"Research. There's a technique for removing salt deposits from medieval frescoes that I'm trying to understand."

"Sounds boring."

"It's actually fascinating." I shifted, pulling my knees up, laptop balanced on them. "These frescoes have survived for centuries, but modern pollution is destroying them faster than age ever did. We have to figure out how to save them without damaging the original work. It's like surgery, but on art."

Something flickered in his expression. Interest, maybe. "You love it."

"I do." It was the truth. Or it had been. Lately, I couldn't seem to care about anything except the man sitting two feet away. "Italy was supposed to be my forever plan. Build a career, make a name for myself in restoration, maybe teach eventually."

"Was?"

I closed my laptop. "I don't know anymore. Being back here, it's made me question everything."

"Because of me."

"Don't flatter yourself." The lie tasted bitter. "Because of a lot of things. Mom's new marriage. This house. The fact that everything I thought I knew about my life shifted while I was gone."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For complicating things. For being here when you came home. For making this harder than it needs to be."

The apology did something to me, softening the edges of my anger. "You didn't know I was coming."

"Doesn't matter. I still made it impossible for you to just enjoy being home."

"Cade." I waited until he looked at me. Really looked at me. "You're not the villain here. We're both just trying to survive this."

His jaw worked. "Yeah. Surviving."

The word hung between us, loaded with meaning. Because that was what we were doing. Not living. Not moving forward. Just surviving each moment, each encounter, each loaded glance.

"This is ridiculous," I said suddenly.

"What is?"

"This. Us. Tiptoeing around each other like we're strangers. We're going to be family now, whether we like it or not. Maybe we should just, I don't know, try to be normal. Act like actual step-siblings instead of whatever this is."

His laugh was harsh. "You think we can do that?"

"We can try." I was lying through my teeth, and we both knew it, but the alternative was this constant tension that was eating me alive. "Come on. What do normal siblings do? They watch TV together, right? Complain about their parents? Share a pizza?"

"Scarlett."

"I'm serious. Let's just, I don't know, try to be friends. Take the weird out of it."

He studied me for a long moment, and I could see him turning it over, weighing the possibility. "Friends."

"Friends."

"You realise that's never going to work."

"Probably not," I admitted. "But it has to be better than this cold war we've got going."

Another pause. Then he sighed, and something in his posture relaxed fractionally. "Fine. We can try."

"Great." I pasted on a bright smile. "So, friend, have you eaten? Because I'm starving, and I'm pretty sure there's leftover Thai food in the fridge."

"I could eat."

We ended up in the kitchen, reheating pad thai and green curry, moving around each other with careful precision. I grabbed plates; he got the silverware. I poured water; he found napkins. It was almost domestic. Almost normal.

Almost.

"So," I said as we settled at the kitchen island, "tell me about the construction business. How'd you go from working jobs to owning the company?"

He shrugged, twirling noodles around his fork. "Worked my ass off. Saved every penny. When my old boss retired, he sold me the client list, and I built from there. The first year was brutal. I was working eighteen-hour days, doing everything from framing to finish work to bookkeeping."

"And now?"

"Now I've got a crew of twelve, enough contracts to keep us busy for the next two years, and a reputation for quality work." There was pride in his voice, earned and real. "We just got commissioned to build a custom home for a state senator. That's the project I was inspecting today."

"That's incredible, Cade. Really."

His eyes met mine. "Thanks. What about you? What's it like, working on centuries-old art?"

I told him about Florence. About the tiny studio where I worked, barely bigger than a closet, with northern light and the smell of mineral spirits. About my mentor, Giovanni, who'd been restoring frescoes for forty years and had hands steadier than a surgeon's. About the first time I'd successfully removed a layer of grime to reveal original pigment underneath, colours that hadn't seen light in decades.

And he listened. Really listened, asking questions, making comments that proved he was actually paying attention.

For a little while, it almost worked. We were almost normal.

Then his phone rang.

"Sorry," he muttered, glancing at the screen. "It's the site foreman. I have to take this." He stepped into the hallway, voice dropping to business mode. "Yeah. What's up?"

I could hear the murmur of his voice, the shift in tone as he handled whatever crisis had just emerged. And I took the opportunity to really look at him. The way he paced while he talked, one hand gesturing even though the person on the other end couldn't see him. The furrow between his brows when he concentrated. The way he dragged his hand through his hair when he was frustrated.

I was so focused on watching him that I didn't notice the water glass in my hand was too close to the edge of the counter. Not until my elbow knocked it, sending it toppling.

The glass shattered on the tile floor with a crash that echoed through the quiet house.

"s**t!" I jumped back, but not fast enough. Cold water soaked through my tank top, and shards of glass glittered across the floor like scattered diamonds.

Cade was there in an instant, phone abandoned. "Don't move."

"I'm fine, it's just…"

"I said, don't move." His voice was sharp, commanding. "You're barefoot. There's glass everywhere."

I froze, suddenly aware of how close the shards were to my feet. One wrong step and I'd slice myself open.

Cade surveyed the damage, jaw tight. Then, without warning, he bent and scooped me up, one arm under my knees, the other around my back.

"Cade! I can walk."

"Not through broken glass, you can't." He carried me to the kitchen island, setting me down on the counter like I weighed nothing. "Stay here. Don't move."

I watched, dazed, as he grabbed the broom from the pantry and started sweeping up glass. His movements were efficient, practised. When every shard was collected, he got the mop, cleaned up the water, and double-checked the floor.

The whole time, I sat on the counter, water dripping from my shirt, heart hammering.

When he was satisfied the floor was safe, he came back to me. Stood between my knees, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"You okay?" His voice was rough.

"Fine. Just clumsy."

His hands came up, hovering near my waist, not quite touching. "You're soaked."

"I'll dry."

"Scarlett." His eyes dropped to my chest, and I suddenly remembered what I was wearing. A thin white tank top, no bra, now completely transparent from the water.

Oh God.

I crossed my arms over my chest, but it was too late. I'd seen the way his pupils dilated, the way his breathing changed. The way his hands curled into fists at his sides.

"I should go change," I whispered.

"Yeah." But he didn't move. Neither did I. "You should."

The air between us was electric, charged with all the things we weren't saying. His body was so close, radiating heat that made my damp skin prickle with awareness. I could smell him: sweat and sawdust and something darker, more primal.

"Cade." His name came out breathy, desperate.

"Don't." His voice was strained. "Don't say my name like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you want me to kiss you."

"Maybe I do."

His control snapped. I saw it in his eyes, the exact moment restraint gave way to hunger. His hands gripped my waist, fingers digging into wet fabric, and he yanked me to the edge of the counter. My legs parted automatically, making room for him, and suddenly we were pressed together, chest to chest, the evidence of his arousal hard against my core.

"We can't," he gritted out, even as his hands slid up my sides, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts. "We can't do this."

"Then why are you touching me?"

"Because I'm weak." His forehead dropped to mine, breath ragged. "Because you're here and you're wet and you're looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world you want, and I've never been strong enough to resist you."

"So don't." My hands found his shoulders, felt the tension coiled in his muscles. "Don't resist."

For one perfect, terrible moment, I thought he was going to give in. His mouth hovered over mine, so close I could feel his breath on my lips. One of his hands tangled in my hair, tilting my head back, positioning me exactly where he wanted me.

Then, from somewhere in the house, we heard it.

The front door opening.

Voices in the foyer.

We sprang apart like we'd been electrocuted. Cade stumbled back, chest heaving, hands shaking. I slid off the counter, nearly losing my balance, grabbing the edge to steady myself.

"Cade? Mr James? Anyone home?"

I froze.

"They're supposed to be on a cruise," I hissed, panic clawing up my throat. "They left three days ago."

"They are on a cruise." Cade's face had gone pale. "That's not your mum."

More footsteps. And then a woman's voice, sultry and amused. "Cade, baby? Where are you?"

I watched the colour drain completely from Cade's face.

"Who is that?" I whispered.

He closed his eyes. "My ex-girlfriend."

The kitchen door swung open. And there she was.

She was stunning. Tall, blonde, curves poured into a designer dress that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Her eyes swept the kitchen, taking in the scene: me soaking wet and dishevelled, Cade looking wrecked, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Her red lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Well," she purred. "Isn't this cosy?"