CRAVING DADDY'S BEST FRIEND

Chapter Five: The Price Of Discretion

Chapter Five: The Price of Discretion

Abigail Macron

The distance Caleb put between us in that single second felt wider than the grand canyon. He stepped out of the shadows of the cubicle just as Jasmine rounded the corner, his hands dropping to his sides, his fingers curling into tight fists. He looked remarkably composed for a man whose soul had just been pushed to the edge of damnation, but I could see the rapid, heavy rise and fall of his chest.

I stayed pressed against the cold wall, my hands trembling as I frantically yanked the strap of my silk camisole back over my shoulder. My heart was beating so violently against my ribs I was terrified Jasmine would hear it.

"Oh," Jasmine said, slowing her pace as she took in the scene. Her eyes darted from Caleb’s rigid posture to the dark recess where I was still trying to gather my composure. A slow, knowing glint sparked in her eyes, a sharp contrast to the oblivious innocence my father possessed. "Am I interrupting a business meeting?"

"Not at all, Jasmine," Caleb said, his voice a masterpiece of corporate calm, though the gravelly undertone remained. He adjusted his loosened tie with one fluid motion, smoothing down the front of his suit jacket. "Abigail was just showing me where her father left the updated portfolio files. Excuse me."

He didn't look back at me. He didn't dare. With long, deliberate strides, he brushed past Jasmine and disappeared down the corridor, the heavy thud of his boots fading back toward my father’s study.

The silence he left behind was suffocating. I stepped out of the dark alcove, my hands automatically smoothing down the front of my skimpy flair skirt, my mind a chaotic whirlwind of adrenaline and frustration. I had been so close. His mouth had been on mine, his hands had been on my skin, and the memory of his rigid desire pressing against me was still a phantom weight in my stomach.

Jasmine crossed her arms, leaning against the arched entryway of the parlor. The expression on her face was pure entertainment.

"Well, well, well," she whispered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. "Look at you. You actually did it. You went down there and rattled the cage."

"Jasmine, shut up," I gasped, my voice thin as I walked past her toward the kitchen, desperate for that glass of water I had lied about needing.

She followed me closely, her heels clicking a triumphant rhythm against the marble. "Don't 'shut up' me! Abby, your lipstick is completely smeared across your face. He literally bit you, didn't he? God, the Silver Fox has a wild side."

I pushed through the swinging doors of the kitchen, the bright, sterile fluorescent lights making my eyes ache. I grabbed a crystal glass from the cabinet, my hands shaking so badly the glass clinked loudly against the quartz countertop. I filled it from the dispenser, taking a long, desperate swallow to soothe the raw burning in my throat.

"It’s not funny, Jasmine," I said, setting the glass down and turning to face her. "He’s my father's best friend. My father is sitting right down the hall. If you hadn't walked in when you did..."

"If I hadn't walked in, you’d be on that leather couch in the parlor right now," Jasmine countered, stepping up to me and grabbing a napkin from the island.

She reached up, gently but firmly wiping the rogue red stains from the edges of my mouth.

"And don't look at me like I ruined your moment. I just saved your ass. If that had been your dad looking for you, you’d be on a private jet to a Swiss boarding school by midnight."

I let out a shaky breath, closing my eyes as she cleaned up the evidence of Caleb's hunger. "He said he would ruin me. He said if he touched me, there was no going back."

"And yet, he touched you anyway," Jasmine pointed out, throwing the stained napkin into the trash with a satisfied smirk. "Men like Caleb Os—sorry, Caleb the billionaire—are used to controlling everything. The market, the boardrooms, their own impulses. You just proved to him that he can’t control himself around you. That’s power, Abby."

"It feels like terror," I admitted, looking at my reflection in the dark glass of the kitchen window. My eyes were still wide, my skin still flushed. I looked like a girl who had just survived a storm, only to realize she wanted to walk right back into the eye of it.

"That’s what real chemistry feels like. It’s supposed to be terrifying," Jasmine said, leaning her hips against the counter. "But now you have to play the long game. Just like they do downstairs. You can't just chase him around the corridors. You have to make him come to you. Let him stew in the guilt of what he almost did tonight. Let him think about the way you tasted while he’s sitting in his lonely penthouse downtown."

Before I could reply, the swinging doors of the kitchen opened again.

I froze, expecting Caleb, but it was my father. He looked older under the harsh kitchen lights, his glasses hanging from a chain around his neck. He looked at the two of us, a gentle smile lifting his tired features.

"There you girls are," he said, walking over to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of sparkling water. "I thought you’d gone to bed. Caleb just left. Said he had an early flight to Tokyo in the morning and needed to pack."

The word Tokyo hit me like a physical blow. He was running. He was putting an entire ocean between us because he couldn't trust himself within fifty feet of me.

"Oh, that's a shame," Jasmine said smoothly, not missing a beat as she threw an arm around my shoulder, giving me a supportive squeeze. "We were hoping he’d stay for breakfast tomorrow. Abby made those specific blueberry muffins he likes last week."

"Business never sleeps, girls," my father sighed, completely missing the tension in my posture. He walked over and pressed a warm kiss to the top of my head. "Go to sleep, Abby. You look exhausted. Your face is entirely flushed."

"Just a little warm, Dad," I whispered, forcing a smile that felt like cracking glass. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

As my father walked back out of the kitchen, the weight of the situation fully settled over me. Caleb was leaving the country. He was trying to erase the friction of our encounter in the hallway with miles and time zones.

I looked at Jasmine, the spark of defiance returning to my chest, hotter and more stubborn than before.

"He thinks he can run," I whispered, my fingers tightening around the edge of the quartz counter.

Jasmine’s smirk widened, dark and encouraging. "Then let him run. Tokyo is only a twelve-hour flight, Abby. And your father has a corporate jet. I think it’s time we planned a little vacation.” What do you think?