The Fine Print of Us

Chapter eight - Blurred, Crossed Lines

Mara had done a damn good job of avoiding Damien since their little… lapse in judgment. The moment his mouth met hers, all her carefully constructed boundaries had started crumbling like week-old cookies. And that terrified her. Because Damien Blackthorn didn’t kiss like a man playing pretend, he kissed like he meant it. And she couldn’t afford to get lost in that kind of mess again.

Not when she had work to do.

Today was a big one. She had a meeting with the horror author—the horror author—whose best-selling novel was being turned into a feature film. Damien’s favorite, naturally. Not that she was going to think about that. This wasn’t about him.

It was about her work.

Her craft.

She dressed like she meant business: black tailored slacks, a silk white blouse that flowed just enough to be elegant, and her favorite blazer, navy with subtle silver pinstripes. Polished, professional, and very do not mess with me. Her dark hair was styled in soft waves, and her makeup was just the right mix of fresh and fierce.

When she checked herself in the mirror, she almost forgot she was technically living with Damien Blackthorn.

Almost.

She swung open her bedroom door and—

Wham.

Walked straight into six feet of expensive cologne, sharp cheekbones, and smug masculinity.

Damien.

Of course he was standing there. Probably waiting, like the universe’s cruel joke.

She took a step back, schooling her expression, pretending her stomach hadn’t just done a traitorous little flip.

He arched a brow. “Going somewhere important?”

She smoothed her blouse and tilted her chin. “Yes, actually. Meeting with an author. The one whose book is getting the big-screen treatment.”

A flicker of recognition passed through his eyes. Of course he knew which one she meant.

“You look—” His gaze drifted lower, appreciating in a way that made heat creep up her neck. “Like someone who’s about to close a deal.”

“I always do.” She brushed past him, aiming for breezy but barely clearing composed. “Try not to hover by the hallway next time. You’re not a Greek statue.”

He let out a low laugh behind her. “Noted. But you didn’t seem to mind the sculpting last night.”

She paused mid-stride, hating the way her body responded before her brain had the chance to block it. Mara didn’t turn around.

She didn’t need to.

Instead, she tossed over her shoulder, “That was a lapse in judgment, not a compliment.”

Then she grabbed her bag, walked out the door, and told herself not to think about the smirk she knew he was wearing behind her.

Not today.

Today, she was Mara Lennox, professional designer. The woman who turned words into visual magic and kept her heart locked in a vault no lawyer could c***k.

Mara liked the author's office more than she wanted to admit. It was a well-balanced marriage between brooding old English library and slick Manhattan ambition. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases stood proudly on one side of the room, dark wood trimmed in brass, stacked with cracked spines and leather-bound classics. Across from them, polished metal, exposed beams, and an espresso machine that probably cost more than her rent.

Of course he had first editions. Her fingers hovered reverently over the weathered copy of Frankenstein. She didn’t touch, it felt like sacred ground.

The guy wrote modern psychological horror, the kind that left your stomach in knots and your lights on at night. But his taste? Pure literary roots. She admired the hell out of that. The first time they’d met, it was through a screen, her hunched over her laptop in sweatpants, him in some shadowy corner office, voice rich with quiet menace.

Now, she was standing in that shadowy office in her power blazer and heels.

A door opened behind her, soft and slow. She turned.

And smiled.

The man in question, dark-haired, disheveled in that “I spend more time in my mind than in mirrors” kind of way, grinned back as if they were already friends.

“Nice to meet you in person,” she said, extending a hand.

“You took the words right out of my mouth.” His handshake was firm but casual. He gestured to the leather chairs by the window. “Please. Sit. Full disclosure, I didn’t plan this meeting. My manager insisted. Said you were trending or something?”

Ah. There it was.

She fought the urge to sigh dramatically. Or roll her eyes. Of course. She was here not just because her work was good but because her name had been dragged through enough gossip blogs to pique commercial interest. She had the Damien Blackthorn Effect to thank for that.

Was she supposed to send him flowers?

Still, she smiled, tilting her head with mock hurt. “You wound me. I thought you wanted to see me because my cover design is what sold out your last print run.”

He blinked then burst out laughing.

Relief bloomed in her chest. Thank god.

“You’re funny,” he said. “And wrong. I did want to meet you. The manager just gave me the push. The truth is…” He leaned forward, lowering his voice like they were in on a secret. “That cover? It made people pick the book up before they knew a damn thing about me.”

She met his gaze. “I believed in the story. That helps.”

He nodded slowly. “And that’s why I want to work with you again.”

She didn’t smile this time. She beamed.

Then her phone buzzed in her bag. Once. Twice. Then it stopped.

Damien. She knew it before she checked. Because that was how her day was going.

She ignored it.

“You said you’re working on something new?” she asked.

“I am,” he said. “And it’s darker. Smarter. It’s going to rattle people.”

“Perfect,” she said, grabbing her tablet. “Then let’s make sure it looks like it’ll ruin their sleep just sitting on the shelf.”

The author dove into the premise of his next book, and Mara found herself falling straight into his world. The plot was deliciously dark, the kind of slow-burn dread that crept up your spine without warning. His characters were fractured, morally gray, and magnetic in all the worst ways. The setting? Cold, isolated, richly atmospheric. She jotted notes like her life depended on it, already picturing shadows and texture and twisted symbolism.

But she didn’t just take notes, she asked questions. Probing ones. She wanted to crawl inside his vision, not mimic it. That was the difference between a designer and her. She wasn’t here to slap a stock photo on a cover. She was here to make something that haunted people before they even opened the first page.

He had ideas, sure but she didn’t let them steer her too far. Just enough to see what he wanted before she broke it open into something bold. And God, was he interesting. The kind of quiet, brilliant weird that made her want to sit across from him for hours and just listen.

When he handed her a deadline, it was more of a suggestion. There was no trial round. No “we’ll see how it goes.” He wanted her and only her. That alone made her feel ten feet tall.

But then… there were the looks.

The flickers.

Soft and fleeting, but not entirely professional. Not in the way his gaze lingered, or how sometimes when she spoke, he smiled like he was memorizing her. It could’ve been her imagination, sure. Her brain did love to overanalyze. But the way her cheeks flushed didn’t feel hypothetical.

After the meeting, he walked her to the elevator, close enough for her to catch the scent of cedar and ink. Her heart did an annoying little stutter. She reminded herself she was here for work. Strictly work.

Then he leaned in slightly, voice lower, “I’m already looking forward to the next meeting.”

The elevator dinged.

She turned toward the open doors, heart firmly lodged somewhere between her ribs and her throat when she felt it. His hand on her lower back. Barely there, but warm and steady. He didn’t remove it right away.

Just long enough to make her brain short-circuit.

She stepped into the elevator and gave him a smile that was all poise and none of the chaos happening beneath it.

“Me too,” she said. Then the doors slid closed.

As the elevator descended, Mara stared at her reflection in the mirrored wall.

Damien Blackthorn was already enough of a problem.

She did not need a brilliant, brooding horror author joining the emotional soap opera of her life.

And yet… she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of story he would write about her.

Mara pulled herself together in the elevator mirror, smoothing her hair back into place like it hadn’t just been blown to pieces by a half-second of elevator tension. She re-applied her lipstick with the precision of a woman going into battle, not because she cared about how she looked, but because it gave her something to do with her hands. Something that wasn't texting Damien.

But her fingers itched. She couldn't avoid him forever not when there was a contract involved and press events looming over her head like a guillotine.

She sighed, long and low, the kind of sigh that carried both caffeine withdrawal and emotional exhaustion.

Focus.

With one last glance at her reflection, she squared her shoulders and stepped out into the lobby. Her phone buzzed the moment she hit street level. Damien: We need to talk. I’ll be home early tonight.

Short.

Straightforward.

And so typical of him.

No “How was your day?” or “Did your meeting go well?” Just five ominous words that could mean anything from Let’s revise our press schedule to I saw those photos and now I’m pacing my penthouse like a jealous lunatic.

She stared at the message for a second before replying.

Mara: Fine. I’ll be home too.

She slipped her phone back into her bag, ignoring the tiny flutter of nerves in her stomach. Because she knew exactly what she was walking into.

This wasn’t about logistics. This was about lines.

Blurred ones.

Crossed ones.

Ones she swore she wouldn’t erase again.

And the second she stepped back into that penthouse, they’d both have to pretend they hadn’t already tasted what it felt like to fall.

The penthouse was unusually quiet when Mara stepped inside. The kind of quiet that wasn’t peace, but pressure. Like the air was waiting for something. She placed her bag on the console table, paused to breathe, and reminded herself: he doesn’t control your mood. Whatever Damien Blackthorn wanted to say could wait until she’d had time to process her own thoughts.

But as soon as she turned the corner into the living room, he was there, jacket off, tie loose, holding a glass of something amber in his hand. His gaze locked on her like he’d been rehearsing the stare.

Of course he had.

“Rough day at court?” she asked lightly, trying not to let her nerves show.

“Not really,” Damien said, then took a sip from his glass before setting it down with deliberate calm. “Your job is your priority. I respect that.” He gestured to the bottle of whiskey on the side table. “You want one?”

She paused, arching a brow. “Sure.”

She didn’t trust his tone. Too polite. Too measured. Like he was warming up for a cross-examination, not a casual chat between contractually involved adults with complicated pasts. He poured her a glass like he was pouring gasoline, and her instincts told her the spark was coming.

“Well, good thing you do,” she said, accepting the drink and folding her arms. “Because I wouldn’t bend on that one. So what was so urgent you had to text me like a Bond villain?”

He didn’t blink. “Tell me about your ex. Andrew Reinhart.”

And just like that, she froze.

Her fingers tightened around the glass, but her voice stayed level. “Why?”

He placed her glass down gently, his eyes watching hers too closely. “Because the man is threatening me personally. I know you ran into him Friday night. You might think it was a coincidence, but I think he saw an opportunity and took it.”

Mara didn’t answer. She just tossed back the whiskey like it was water and prayed it would settle the sudden swirl of guilt, irritation, and dread bubbling in her chest.

Of course Andrew would use her like a weapon. He always needed to win something, even if it was petty. Even if it was her.

But what stung more was the fact that Damien knew and hadn’t said anything until now.

“I didn’t invite him,” she said finally, voice calm but cool. “He saw me. I didn’t run. I said hi. I didn’t know you two were still trying to ruin each other’s lives.”

Damien’s jaw clenched. “He’s not trying. He’s escalating.”

Mara blinked. “So you think he’s what? Using me to mess with your career?”

“I think he’s using any leverage he can get. And yeah, that includes you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So what you think I’m too naive to see that?”

His expression faltered. “No. I think you’re too good to expect it.”

There it was. The subtle, infuriating twist of him giving her a compliment while also poking a bruise she wasn’t ready to expose.

She stepped back. “You could’ve told me this sooner.”

“I didn’t want to blow it out of proportion,” he said. “But then Ivy showed me a photo of you today.”

Her stomach flipped. “What photo?”

“A grainy photo which resurfaced on Social Media. You were smiling. With someone tall, dark-haired. The author?”

Ah. Of course.

Jealousy, wrapped in a security briefing.

Mara scoffed. “He’s a client, Damien. Someone I respect. You want to grill everyone I have coffee with?”

He stepped closer, jaw tight, voice lower. “I don’t like seeing people look at you like that.”

Her pulse jumped.

“Then you should’ve kissed me Friday,” she said, softer now. “Instead of disappearing for days.”

They stared at each other.

The silence between them suddenly felt dangerous.

“Don’t punish me,” she whispered, “because someone else tried to use me.”

He didn’t move. But his eyes burned hotter. “Then stop making me want you more when I know you’re still trying to run.”

She felt it then.

That spark.

The moment where all her carefully built walls trembled like glass.

But she didn’t step forward.

Not yet.

She hated the way he looked at her.

Like she was the only real thing in the room. Like she was a puzzle he couldn’t stop trying to solve. Like if she gave him an inch, he’d tear down every wall she had left just to see what was underneath.

Her fingers tightened around the empty glass.

“I’m not running,” she said, barely above a whisper.

His jaw flexed, his eyes locked on hers like he was waiting for the moment to pounce. “Then stop acting like you are.”

And there it was, that spark detonating into a full blaze.

She moved first. Or maybe he did. She wasn’t sure.

All she knew was one second she was standing still, and the next his hands were in her hair, his mouth crashing down on hers like he’d been starved of it. Of her. The kiss was nothing like the last one.

This was hungry.

Possessive.

The kind of kiss that stripped her of every lie she’d told herself about him. That she didn’t want this. That she didn’t need him.

Her blazer hit the floor, forgotten.

Damien backed her into the wall with practiced ease, his body crowding hers like he was making room in his chaos for only one person—her. One hand gripped her hip, hard, while the other tilted her chin up, commanding more from her lips.

And she gave it.

Because she couldn’t fake indifference when his mouth was on her throat, or when his breath ghosted over her skin like a promise she didn’t trust but still wanted.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered against her neck, voice rough and reverent all at once. “Do you know that?”

Mara gasped as his hands slid under her silk top. “That’s not even the worst of what I can do.”

He groaned at that, his control splintering. His mouth found hers again, slower this time—deeper. It was the kind of kiss that demanded things, stole things. She met it with everything she had, her fingers tugging at his shirt, nails scraping lightly over his skin until he hissed. And when he pulled back just long enough to meet her eyes, her lipstick smudged and breath stolen, Mara knew something had shifted.

This wasn’t part of the performance anymore.

This wasn’t for the press or their contract or her mother.

This was them.

Raw.

Real.

Reckless.

His hands gripped her hips like he didn’t want to let go. His mouth traced a line from her collarbone back to her lips, and when he kissed her again. Slower now, as if he meant every second of it. Mara felt herself unraveling. She should’ve stopped this minutes ago. But logic had no place in this kind of heat. She arched into him, her hand tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer like gravity had finally won. His mouth moved like he was memorizing her. Like he had every intention of burning her into his skin.

God, this wasn’t supposed to happen.

This was supposed to be professional.

Controlled.

Safe.

She tore her lips from his and backed up, heart pounding, body burning, breath gone. Damien’s brows drew together as if trying to read her, but she couldn’t let him.

Not now.

“I can’t—” Her voice was shaky, barely more than a whisper. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Mara—”

“No,” she said, firmer this time, cutting him off. “This is exactly how it starts. You make me forget. You make me want to believe.”

She stepped back like the floor might collapse if she stayed another second in his orbit.

“I can’t want you. Not again.”

Then she turned, grabbing her blazer off the floor and all but fleeing to her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her before she did something even more reckless like go back. She leaned against the door, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm, hands trembling. Her lips still tasted like him.

This was not supposed to happen.

And yet, here she was again.

Wanting him anyway.