Page 9 of Promised to the Heir

The space between us disappears. He doesn’t rush. His hand finds my jaw, his thumb grazing the corner of my mouth, a slow test of boundaries that makes my breath falter. Heat spreads through me, starting where his skin meets mine and spiraling outward until my fingers tremble against my sides. I should stop this. I should step back. Instead, I lean in, the air between us charged and humming.

Jeremy’s mouth claims mine, like he’s known all along this would happen. The first brush is soft, almost polite, a whisper of skin and breath that leaves me hungry for more. When he deepens it, the taste of sweet coffee, heat, and something purely male floods my senses. My pulse stumbles, then finds a faster rhythm that matches his.

His other hand slips to the back of my neck, holding me still while exploring as if he’s mapping every curve and corner for later. Each brush feels deliberate, a quiet study in control, like he knows exactly how long to make me wait before deepening the kiss. For a moment the world forgets itself. The hum of the factory fades. He kisses like a man who understands leverage, applying just enough pressure to make surrender feel like choice. My knees go weak. I catch the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, feeling the solid muscle beneath.

The world narrows to touch and breath. The faint scrape of his stubble along my cheek. The low sound he makes when I respond, a rumble that lands somewhere low in my stomach and twists tight. I part my lips, and his tongue teases the edge of mine. The slow stroke draws a shiver from me.

When he finally pulls back, the air between us turns thin and hot. My lips tingle, still damp from the drag of his mouth. He keeps his hand at my jaw, thumb tracing the curve of my lower lip as if he’s memorizing what he just claimed.

His eyes catch mine and hold. They pull me in the way deep water does, calm on the surface but full of hidden currents. I can’t tell if he’s daring me to move or waiting for me to sink.

“Tomorrow.” The word lands between us like a promise wrapped in a threat. My pulse trips on it, half hope, half warning.

He steps back, leaving space where his body used to be. The scent of clean skin and heat and something dark enough to keep me awake long after he’s gone lingers.

CHAPTER 6

Jeremy

The inspection ends with a firm handshake and a clean report.

The relief that rolls through the factory is tangible. Shoulders drop, laughter spills, and the restrained murmur of conversation shifts into something lighter. Clara stands near the dock doors, clipboard in hand, giving quiet praise where it’s due. She doesn’t smile easily, but when she does, it’s worth watching.

I wait until the inspector’s car disappears down the drive before walking over.

“Congratulations.” I stuff my hands in my pockets, because they itch to touch. “You passed without a single note.”

Her gaze flicks up. There’s a cautious glint in her eyes. “We did our job.”

“You did more than that.”

Her lips part once, then close again. A small breath leaves her, as if she’s searching for words that won’t betray too much. The second time she tries, nothing comes out. Finally, she exhales, sharp and quiet, and gives the smallest nod. The fight’s still there, simmering under the surface, but exhaustion wins for now. The line of her shoulders eases just enough for me to see it. The tension around her mouth softens just enough.

I step closer and keep my voice low enough so only she will hear it. “Let me take you to dinner. No business talk unless you start it.”

Her first reaction isn’t verbal. The muscles in her jaw shift, a breath catches, and her fingers tap once against the clipboard before going still. She looks past me, toward the parking lot, calculating the polite way to say no. Then she exhales through her nose, slow and quiet, and meets my eyes again. “Why not? We both need to eat. We can eat together if you like.”

I bite back a smile. A lesser man might take offense at the lack of enthusiasm, but a quarterback doesn’t flinch when the crowd’s quiet. You make the call, run the play, and let the result speak.

“Deal.”

The word settles between us. She hesitates only a second before nodding once, the same way she probably signs off on a production order she doesn’t entirely trust. I don’t push. Just step back, give her space to breathe, and watch her retreat toward her office.

By the time we leave the factory, the sun has dropped behind the silos, the sky the color of molten copper. I drive past the water tower and past Dina’s with its eternal parade of pickup trucks. Small towns keep their memories like ledger books, and gossip fills the margins fast. Tonight, I want privacy and no town scrutiny.

The restaurant I choose is a few miles out of Iron Ridge, tucked along the river road. White tablecloths, quiet music, candles instead of neon. It smells of roasted garlic and good wine.

We’re shown to a booth near the back. The light catches in her hair, that pale-gold strand that escaped her bun earlier, the one I’ve wanted to touch all afternoon. She smooths her skirt, sets her phone face down on the table, and looks at me as if she’s not sure whether she’s being interrogated or courted.

The waitress leaves us with menus. I don’t bother to open mine. “You still drink cabernet?”

Her brow lifts. “You remember that?”

“I make a point of remembering the important details.”

Her eyes flicker down to the menu again, hiding whatever crossed her face. “Cabernet’s fine.”

When the wine comes, she studies the glass before taking a sip. Her lipstick leaves the faintest mark on the rim. I let my gaze rest there a second too long.