Chapter 38
Serena
The elevator was one of those sleek, silent affairs that probably cost more than my entire childhood home, all polished brass and dark wood paneling that smelled faintly of cedar and money.
I leaned into Lance's side, one hand curled against his chest, the other sliding around his waist with what I hoped looked like wine-induced clumsiness rather than calculated curiosity.
His heartbeat was steady beneath my palm—too steady, really, for someone who'd just chased me through a dark alley and was now trapped in an enclosed space with a supposedly drunk woman draped all over him.
"Haven't you touched enough yet?" His voice carried that particular blend of exasperation and resignation I was beginning to recognize as distinctly Lance. "We're here."
But he didn't push me away. Didn't even shift to create distance between us. Just stood there like a marble statue that happened to run warm, letting me explore the expensive fabric of his vest, the solid muscle beneath.
The elevator doors slid open with a whisper, and whatever sarcastic response I'd been formulating died on my lips.
"Holy shit." The words escaped before I could stop them, my wine-hazed performance evaporating as I stepped forward into the most spectacular space I'd ever seen. "This is my dream house!"
The penthouse stretched before me like something out of an architectural magazine, all soaring ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows that turned Manhattan into a glittering canvas spread out thirty floors below. Moonlight poured through the massive skylight overhead, silver beams cutting across the open space, illuminating furniture arranged with mathematical precision.
It looked untouched. Empty. Free.
Lance moved past me, his hand briefly touching my lower back as he guided me further inside. "It's just an investment property."
"An investment—" I turned to stare at him, momentarily forgetting I was supposed to be drunk and pliable. "You own this palace and you choose to live in that stuffy mansion with your grandfather instead?" The pieces clicked together in my wine-loosened brain. "Wait. Is it a Lawson thing? Like, the heir has to live in the family estate or you lose your inheritance?"
"Hey." He caught my wandering hands—when had they started exploring his waist again?—and firmly removed them, though his grip remained gentle. "I'm letting you stay one night. That doesn't give you permission to interrogate me about my living arrangements."
I couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up, giddy and free in a way I hadn't felt in years. This place—this beautiful, empty, huge space—it was perfect. I did a little spin, arms outstretched, then found myself bouncing on my toes, energy suddenly surging through me despite the long night.
"God, this is amazing!" I jogged a few steps toward the windows, then back toward what looked like a kitchen island, testing the echo of my footsteps against the hardwood. "So much space! And barely any furniture!" Another bounce. "I could do cartwheels in here and not hit anything!"
"Please don't do cartwheels in here."
But there was something in his voice—not quite amusement, but close. Interest, maybe. I glanced back to find him watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read, head tilted slightly like I was a particularly fascinating specimen he was trying to categorize.
"I assumed you'd be more impressed by the luxury," he said, and there was definitely humor threading through his tone now, barely concealed beneath that trademark stoicism. "The walls are Italian Carrara marble. That television is a custom-built Titan system worth more than most cars. The coffee table is reclaimed teak from a nineteenth-century shipwreck."
I stopped mid-bounce, turning to face him fully. "Well, if you'd been living in a shoebox for the past few years, you'd appreciate square footage over fancy materials too." I gestured expansively at the open floor plan. "I can't do a cartwheel—never learned, honestly—but I do like to move. And besides looking at art, I actually really enjoy physical activity. Yoga, running, that sort of thing."
"I didn't ask what you liked."
"Whatever." I waved off his protest, already heading toward the staircase I'd spotted near the far wall. "You said the guest room was upstairs, right? I need a shower. I can still smell Henderson's cologne and it's making me nauseous."
"Serena—"
But I was already climbing, one hand trailing along the brushed steel railing, the other lifting my borrowed coat slightly so I wouldn't trip on the hem.
The stairs spiraled up in a graceful curve, and I couldn't resist looking back down at him standing in the middle of his pristine, unlived-in palace, watching me invade his space with a mix of bewilderment and something that might have been amusement.
"You're remarkably comfortable making yourself at home," he called up, following at a more measured pace. "We ran into each other on the street. I offered you a place to sleep because the alternative was leaving you drunk and alone at one in the morning. But we're still essentially strangers. Doesn't that worry you at all?"
Ran into each other. Right. Because he just happened to be driving through the Meatpacking District at the exact moment I was stumbling out of Le Bernardin, and Vincent just happened to know exactly where I'd been all evening.
But I wasn't about to call him out on it. Not when the lie was so transparent it might as well have been a confession.
"Well," I said, pausing on the landing to look back at him, "you're my boss. You're my ex-boyfriend's uncle—emphasis on ex. And you're the infamous Lance Lawson, the man who supposedly never mixes business with pleasure and treats relationships like hostile takeovers. You're probably the safest option in Manhattan right now."
Something flickered across his face—was that irritation? Like being categorized as "safe" somehow offended him? But it was gone before I could analyze it, replaced by his usual careful neutrality as he reached the top of the stairs.
"Back to tonight," he said quietly, falling into step beside me as we moved down the hallway, "how did you manage to get away from Henderson? That man has a reputation for being... persistent."
I couldn't suppress the grin that spread across my face, sharp and satisfied. "You'll find out tomorrow. Trust me, it's going to be very entertaining."
He stopped walking, turning to study me with those penetrating gray-blue eyes that seemed to see straight through every carefully constructed defense I'd ever built.
"I'm starting to question whether you actually needed help tonight."
"Maybe I didn't," I admitted, meeting his gaze without flinching. "But you showed up anyway. That says something, doesn't it?"
Something flickered across his face—too quick to read, too dangerous to name.
His jaw tightened. "It says I was in the area—"
"You were worried about me."
My pulse kicked up the second the words left my mouth. Too bold. Way too bold. But looking at him—this devastatingly handsome, dangerously controlled man standing so close—made me feel drunk all over again.
"Admit it." I added.
"Don't—" His voice roughened, warning clear.
"Don't what?" I tilted my head. "Don't notice that you care?"
He moved.
One fluid step and suddenly I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. His hand came up to brace against the wall beside my head, caging me in without quite touching.
"Careful, Miss Vance." His voice dropped to something low and dangerous. "Keep telling yourself I care, and you might start believing it." His gaze flickered down to my mouth, then back up. "And if you believe it—if you keep pushing to see how worried I get—you might not like what happens when you're right."
My breath caught. The heat radiating from his body, the scent of his cologne, the way his jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping—
He pushed off the wall abruptly, already moving toward a door down the hall. "Guest suite's here. Bathroom through there, robes in the cabinet, Vincent will pick you up at seven-thirty."
The words came out rapid-fire, all business, like he was reading from a script. He didn't look at me as he spoke, his hand gripping the doorframe with white-knuckled intensity.
I felt heat creeping up my neck, my pulse still racing from how close he'd been just seconds ago.
"Goodnight," he said tersely, already turning away.