Weeks later, Lily found herself seated across from James in his private office. Manuscript pages were scattered between them, but the air was charged with something unspoken.
"You write romance well," James remarked, his gaze lingering on her a moment too long.
"It's fiction," Lily replied, refusing to acknowledge the way her pulse quickened.
"Fiction comes from somewhere real," he countered, leaning closer. "Tell me, Lily—are you always this guarded?"
She hated how easily he could dismantle her walls. "Are you always this infuriating?"
His laugh was low, almost a growl. "Only when it gets results."
The banter was a dance, and neither wanted to stop. But as the hours stretched, their proximity became undeniable. Fingers brushed when they reached for the same paper. Lingering looks turned into something deeper.
By the end of the session, Lily wasn't sure what left her more breathless: the edits or the man across from her.