Chapter 19 Quiet Storms
Lawrence is different.
He's not the irritable version who's been stalking the halls and snapping at everyone since last week—the afternoon he very coldly told me I'd misunderstood him.
Today he's quieter. Subdued. And his eyes seem distant.
I first noticed it when he came to the office late.
Lawrence Moore is never late.
And then, the real shock was that he wasn't wearing one of his signature tailored three-piece suits.
He walked in wearing just a fitted black shirt, with the collar open. No tie or jacket slung over his shoulder.
The entire floor went quiet for a full three seconds when he showed up. Heads swivelled by. A junior analyst almost dropped her coffee cup.
It's not that he looked unprofessional—he still looks devastating—but Lawrence Moore is obsessive about suits.
They're his uniform, his moral code made of wool and tailoring.
Seeing him without one feels wrong and almost vulnerable.
It feels like catching a predator without its camouflage.
Now, it's half the day, and I'm at my desk pretending to work, when the intercom buzzes.
"Miss Thorn." Lawrence's voice is low and controlled, but it lacks its usual bite. "Get ready in ten. We have an off-site meeting with a regulatory consultant downtown."
"Yes, sir."
The line clicks dead.
I close the chess game window and start gathering my things.
I wonder if his mood today still has something to do with the fact that he's hurting too, from our fallout.
Elias is already waiting in the underground garage when we step out of the elevator together. Lawrence slides into the back seat first, without looking at me.
I follow, keeping carefully to my side.
The silence is tense, and familiar in the worst way because we both know what happened the last time we were here.
Now there's nothing but space between us and the promise of everything we almost did.
I squeeze my legs together, swallowing a gulp against the sudden tingle that memory drags up.
I steal a glance at Lawrence.
He's sexy as hell in that causal shirt, and I like that the top undone button avails me of the view of his throat.
Plus, he's manspreading.
I find that very attractive.
His legs are spread wide in that careless, masculine way that makes the trousers pull tight over his thighs.
I nearly bite my lip.
He turns his head at the same moment, catching me looking.
Our eyes lock.
Pure, hungry heat flares in his gaze, the same fire I feel between my legs.
His lips part slightly, his brows drawing together in something raw.
It's not anger or the cold dismissal from last week.
It's something else. Something that almost looks like pain. And yearning.
My mouth opens.
I'm this close to asking him what's wrong... why he looks like something huge is bothering him, when Elias's voice cuts through the intercom.
"Still travelling to London tomorrow, sir?" He asks, glancing in the rear-view mirror. "I can have the jet prepped and your bags loaded tonight if you confirm."
Lawrence doesn't break eye contact with me when he answers.
"Yes, Elias. Confirm it."
Surprise flashes across my face before I can hide it. Turning quickly to the window, I pretend to watch the buildings slide past in the late-afternoon light.
Something in my chest aches.
He's going back to London so soon.
Why?
Did he finally trace the hacker? Is the threat contained? Or is it simpler and crueller?
Is the thought of sharing the same building with me now so unbearable after he reduced everything between us to "lust"?
Is running easier than facing whatever almost happened in this very car?
I don't ask. And he doesn't explain.
We endure the rest of the ride in silence, the space between us colder than the AC.
The meeting downtown is boring and endless. Imagine sitting through two hours of dense regulatory jargon.
The consultant drones on like an annoying fly, and Lawrence answers every question with the same formal, flawless accuracy he always does.
I do my job, pulling up files on my tablet when he needs them, answering the few questions directed at me, and taking meticulous notes.
Lawrence never speaks to me directly.
By the time we're back in the Maybach, my stomach is empty and growling.
I skipped lunch entirely before we left the office, and the meeting only offered a sad little croissant that wouldn't satisfy a toddler, with a bottle of water.
Nothing substantial.
I press a hand to my abdomen, willing the organ to shut up. The last thing I need is another layer of humiliation in front of him. I've already had enough today.
But my traitorous stomach growls again—loudly, that it echoes in the quiet leather cocoon of the car.
Lawrence's gaze slides sideways.
I want to melt into the seat and disappear.
Heat floods my cheeks as I turn my face toward the window, pretending to sight a building of interest.
"You're hungry," he states flatly.
I'm too embarrassed to answer.
He exhales through his nose, the sound tired. "Elias," he calls, "Please, pull over at the next decent diner. Miss Thorn needs to eat."
I turn to him sharply, shaking my head. "No, it's fine. I'll grab something when we get back to the office."
"I'm not having you pass out or throw up in my car." His tone is matter-of-fact. "We're stopping."
"So this is about your car?" I snap before I can bite my tongue. The words come out laced with all the hurt and frustration I've been swallowing for days.
"God forbid your pristine leather gets ruined by my lowly human stomach acid."
Lawrence doesn't flinch. His cool, unreadable eyes meet mine, narrowing. "It's about basic human needs. You skipped lunch, and you're about to fall over. I'm not letting that become my problem."
"Your problem?" I guffaw. "Unbelievable. You don't want me passing out because it would inconvenience you. Not because you actually give a damn."
Lawrence shifts to face me. "You know what? You're right. I do give a damn about not having to clean vomit out of a nearly two-hundred-thousand-dollar car. Will that suffice?" He snaps back. "This is a 2026 Mercedes-Maybach GLS. I prefer to keep it pristine."
I glare at him, shaking my head again, but choose to end the conversation there.
The car slows as Elias takes the exit toward a roadside diner.
"Open 24/7 – Best Burgers in Town."
He pulls into the lot and kills the engine.
I step out fast, needing air literally anything that isn't being trapped in a confined space with him.
Lawrence is out of the car barely a second later, shutting the door with the same soft thud as mine.
I stop. "Um, what are you doing?"
"I'm coming with you."
"No need. Thank you." I say brusquely.
I start walking toward the diner entrance, determined to put space between us.
Then I hear his footsteps following.
I spin around. "Seriously?"
"Oh, please, Miss Thorn. I'm coming because I need a cup of coffee." He deadpans, brushing past me.
My blood boil even hotter, and I stand there, fuming, my cheeks hot.
Then I let out a long, slow sigh and push open the diner door.