Chapter 5 Late Nights and Lingering looks

The Paris campaign was a beast with sharp teeth and ticking clocks as the launch deadlines loomed, creative assets changed by the hour, and the board expected miracles. This meant Ava Monroe found herself working longer hours in a tighter proximity to him.

Grayson Blackwood, the man who had kissed her like a secret before vanishing into a suit and a title. Now, they shared a room.

The executive floor's west conference room had been converted into campaign HQ, its glass walls lined with mood boards, performance charts, and a floor-to-ceiling digital monitor looping through drafts of the Paris product launch video.

And every evening, long after the rest of the floor emptied, it was just the two of them left behind, buried in strategy reviews and tension so thick it threatened to suffocate them both.

"Your ad copy team keeps burying the lede," Ava said on Thursday night, dropping a thick packet of notes onto the table between them. "They're trying too hard to sound Parisian without saying anything at all."

Grayson looked up from his tablet, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, tie loosened, a shadow of stubble darkening his jawline. He was too relaxed and too sharp at once, and Ava hated how that made her stomach flutter.

"They're trying to sell fantasy," he said, tone calm. "Paris is filled with seduction, mystery, and romance. You know that."

"I know that," she replied, meeting his gaze. "But fantasy only sells when it feels personal. You want romance? Make it real."

His lips curved slightly. "That sounded suspiciously like flirting."

She blinked. "That was marketing."

"Are you sure?"

Her heart did a slow, traitorous somersault as a beat passed.

Then he looked back down at his tablet and said, too casually, "You're right, though. Rewrite it. Your voice sells better."

She stared at him. "You're letting me override your copywriters?"

"You're not wrong often," he said. "It would be stupid to pretend otherwise."

It wasn't the compliment that caught her off guard, but the sincerity in his voice, which was crisp and completely disarming.

For a while, they worked in silence as the sound of typing, paper flipping, and keys clacking. But Ava could feel the static humming under her skin every time he moved or every time their shoulders almost brushed.

It wasn't sustainable, and it wasn't going away.

Around 11:30, Grayson finally leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. "I keep thinking about what Daniel would've done."

Ava glanced up.

He wasn't looking at her. Just out the window, toward the city, toward the blackness of night and the hush of grief that always found a crack to slip through.

"He was supposed to be the face of this campaign," Grayson said. "Of the company, not me."

"You didn't ask for any of this," she said quietly.

"No. But I inherited it anyway."

Silence.

Ava shifted in her seat. "My mother used to say that some things run deeper than blood, and they are responsibility, legacy, and guilt."

He finally turned to her.

"She was a single mom," Ava continued. "Tough, brilliant, and always tired. I never met my father. Not really. He bailed before I was born. Left a note, with no number attached."

Grayson studied her. "You ever want to find him?"

"I used to," she admitted. "Then I realized I was more afraid of the answer than the question. What if he didn't care? What if I reminded him of a mistake?"

"You don't strike me as someone afraid of anything."

"I'm afraid of wasting my time," she said. "Of giving too much to people who don't show up."

His gaze darkened with understanding, but something shifted between them then as the air changed and the distance between their chairs suddenly felt... wrong.

With that, he stood slowly, and so did she.

Neither moved first until Ava stepped forward, and he met her halfway.

The second kiss was nothing like the first. It wasn't wild, hungry, or rushed. It was slow, like an apology whispered against her lips, like a question with no words.

His hand cupped her cheek gently, thumb stroking along her jaw, and she leaned into him like gravity was a decision they made together.

He deepened the kiss, and she let him, and when his hands found her waist and pulled her closer, she didn't resist.

Her fingers slid up his chest, over his collarbone, and she felt his pulse hammering beneath his skin with no titles or roles.

Just skin, heat, and choices, they were no longer pretending not to want.

"I should stop," he murmured against her mouth.

"Then stop," she whispered.

But neither of them did.

****

His apartment was quiet, minimal, and sleek. Ava barely noticed as she was too focused on the way his hands explored her like memory and possibility.

He kissed her like the world had narrowed to just this room and wanted to memorize her shape.

And when they fell into bed, it wasn't about forgetting. It was about finally feeling.

They undressed each other slowly, without urgency. Like the answer to their questions wasn't in the act, but in how they got there.

Every brush of skin, every sigh, no performance, no pretending, only truth, and hours later, Ava lay curled in the sheets with Grayson beside her, and for once, the world was still with just the soft sound of their breathing and the city's heartbeat beyond the glass windows.

She turned toward him and said. "We can't keep doing this."

"I know," he replied.

"It's dangerous," she continued.

"I know," he uttered as she paused. "Then why does it feel right?"

Hearing this, Grayson didn't answer at first as he reached for her hand, his fingers curling around hers. "Because we've both spent our lives doing what's expected."

"And this isn't expected."

"No," he said softly. "But maybe it's what we needed."

Ava didn't respond.

Because for the first time in a long time, she wasn't thinking about tomorrow.

She was finally living in the moment, and it scared her more than she could admit.