Chapter 4: Midnight Measurements

Harper's phone buzzed on her nightstand, the sharp vibration slicing through the quiet of her Brooklyn apartment. She groaned, rolling over in the tangle of sheets, her hair a wild mess across the pillow. The clock glowed 11:47 p.m.—far too late for anyone sane to be texting. She squinted at the screen, her stomach flipping when she saw the name: Zane Carver.The message was short, infuriatingly casual: Penthouse. Now. Need your input.She stared at it, debating whether to ignore him and sink back into the dream she'd been having—one where his hands were doing a lot more than brushing her elbow at a gala. But the memory of that dance two nights ago—the heat of his body, the almost-kiss that still burned on her lips—made her restless. And, damn it, she was curious. What could he possibly need at midnight? With a curse, she threw off the covers, swapped her ratty sleep shirt for a fitted black sweater and jeans, and grabbed her measuring tape and tablet. If he was dragging her out of bed, she'd make it worth her while.The cab ride to Manhattan was a blur of neon lights and her own racing thoughts. By the time she stepped into his penthouse elevator, her nerves were a live wire, sparking with irritation and something she refused to name. The doors slid open, and there he was—leaning against the kitchen island, barefoot in dark jeans and a white T-shirt that stretched across his chest like it was painted on. No suit, no tuxedo, just Zane unfiltered, and somehow that made him more dangerous. His hair was mussed, a tumbler of whiskey dangling from his fingers, and those gray eyes tracked her entrance with a lazy intensity that made her throat dry."Nice of you to show up," he said, his voice a low drawl, tinged with amusement. "I was starting to think you'd ghost me.""It's midnight," she snapped, dropping her bag onto the counter with a thud. "Most people sleep at midnight. What's so urgent?"He straightened, setting the glass down, and gestured toward the living room. "Couldn't sleep. Started thinking about that feature wall you pitched. I want to see it mapped out—tonight."She blinked, caught off guard. "You dragged me across the city to measure a wall?""Not just measure." He smirked, stepping closer, his bare feet silent on the marble. "I want your hands on it. Make it real."Her pulse kicked up, and she cursed herself for it. "Fine. But you're paying me overtime for this.""Name your price," he said, his tone suggesting he wasn't just talking about money. Before she could retort, he brushed past her, his arm grazing hers, and headed for the living room. "Tools are over there. Let's get to it."She followed, muttering under her breath about entitled billionaires, and found a pile of supplies on the coffee table—tape measure, laser level, painter's tape, even a pencil tucked behind his ear like he'd been playing handyman. The space was dimly lit, just the glow of the city skyline through the windows and a single floor lamp casting long shadows. It felt intimate, too quiet, and she shoved the thought aside as she grabbed the tape measure."Alright," she said, kicking off her sneakers to match his barefoot vibe, the cool floor grounding her. "Charcoal accent wall, right here." She gestured to the stretch of wall opposite the sectional. "Ten feet wide, twelve high. I'll mark the dimensions, but I need you to hold the tape at the top—it's too tall for me."He arched a brow, taking the tape from her with a slow, deliberate brush of his fingers against hers. "Bossing me around already. I like it.""Someone has to," she shot back, ignoring the heat creeping up her neck. She climbed onto the sectional, balancing on the back to reach the midpoint, and pointed. "Up there. Hold it steady."He moved with that infuriating grace, stepping onto the couch beside her, his body close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him. He stretched up, pinning the tape to the wall, his shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of taut abdomen—muscle and shadow that made her mouth go dry. She forced her eyes to the task, pulling the tape down to measure the height, but her focus slipped when he shifted, his hip brushing hers."Twelve feet, three inches," she said, her voice tighter than she meant it to be. "You've got extra ceiling height. We can play with that.""Play?" His tone was teasing, his head tilting to look down at her, gray eyes glinting in the low light. "What kind of play are we talking?""Design play," she clarified, though her cheeks burned. "Shelving, maybe. Or a statement piece. Stop distracting me.""Am I?" He didn't move, just held the tape, his arm flexed and steady above her. "You're the one staring."She glared up at him, stepping off the couch to grab the laser level. "Keep dreaming, Carver. Let's do the width."They worked in tandem, marking the wall with painter's tape, her sketching quick outlines on her tablet between measurements. It was oddly domestic—him handing her tools, her barking orders—but the air crackled with something else, a current that grew stronger with every accidental touch. By the time they finished the wall, it was past 1 a.m., and she was buzzing—not from fatigue, but from him."One more," she said, eyeing a high shelf above the bar area. "I want to see if we can fit custom cabinets here. You're tall—grab the tape."He smirked, snagging it from the table and crossing to the bar. "Yes, ma'am." He reached up, stretching to pin the tape against the shelf's edge, but it was just out of reach, even for him. "Need a ladder?""No time." She hopped onto the bar counter, kneeling to steady herself, and gestured. "Give it to me—I'll get it."He handed her the tape, but instead of stepping back, he moved closer, planting his hands on the counter beside her knees. "Or I could help," he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Teamwork, right?"Before she could protest, he gripped her waist and lifted her effortlessly, setting her on her feet atop the counter. Her breath hitched, his hands lingering a beat too long, firm and warm through her sweater. "Zane—""Hold still," he said, stepping onto a barstool and then onto the counter behind her, his chest brushing her back as he reached over her to grab the tape. "I've got this."She froze, trapped between the shelf and his body, his arms caging her as he stretched up to pin the tape. His chest pressed against her spine, hard and unyielding, and she could feel every shift of muscle as he adjusted, his breath hot against her neck. Her hands braced on the shelf for balance, but all she could focus on was him—the heat of him, the way his thighs nudged hers, locking their bodies together in a way that was anything but professional."Six feet, two inches," he said, his voice rougher than usual, his lips so close to her ear she felt the words more than heard them. "Plenty of room.""Uh-huh," she managed, her heart hammering so loud she was sure he could hear it. His hands slid down, one resting on her hip, the other still holding the tape, and she didn't dare move—didn't trust herself to."You're shaking," he murmured, his fingers tightening on her hip, pulling her back just enough that she felt the full length of him against her. "Cold?""No," she breathed, cursing the way her voice trembled. "Just... focused.""Liar." His laugh was low, a vibration she felt through her whole body, and then his free hand moved, brushing her hair aside to bare her neck. His fingers lingered there, tracing the curve of her shoulder, and she shivered again, harder this time. "You're not focused. You're distracted.""Says the guy pinning me to a shelf," she shot back, twisting her head to glare at him—big mistake. His face was inches from hers, eyes dark and molten, lips parted like he was a heartbeat from kissing her. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of whiskey and him, and her resolve cracked."Pinned?" He leaned in, his nose brushing hers, his hand sliding up her side, dangerously close to the edge of her sweater. "This isn't pinned. I could pin you if you want."Her breath caught, a rush of heat flooding her core. "Don't you dare—""Too late." He shifted, pressing himself fully against her, his hips aligning with hers, and she gasped, the hard evidence of his arousal unmistakable through their clothes. His mouth hovered over hers, a whisper away, and his hand slipped under her sweater, fingers splaying across her bare stomach. "Tell me to stop, Harper."She didn't. Couldn't. Instead, she arched into him, her head tipping back against his shoulder, and his lips found her neck—a slow, open-mouthed kiss that made her moan, soft and involuntary. His hand roamed higher, brushing the underside of her bra, and she gripped the shelf, nails digging into the wood as he nipped her skin, a sharp sting followed by the soothing sweep of his tongue."Fuck," she whispered, her voice wrecked, and he growled in response, spinning her to face him. Her back hit the shelf, bottles rattling, and he caged her again, one hand in her hair, the other on her thigh, hitching her leg around his hip."You're killing me," he muttered, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath ragged. "Every damn time.""Then do something about it," she challenged, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer until their lips nearly touched.He groaned, a sound of pure frustration, and then he was kissing her—hard, hungry, a clash of teeth and tongue that stole her breath. She kissed him back just as fiercely, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body arching to meet his. His hand slid up her thigh, pushing her jeans aside to grip bare skin, and she whimpered into his mouth, the sound spurring him on. He lifted her, pinning her against the shelf with his hips, and she wrapped her legs around him, the friction driving her wild.They might've gone further—would've, if the shelf hadn't groaned under their weight, a bottle of bourbon tipping and shattering on the counter below. The crash jolted them apart, both panting, her lips swollen and his eyes wild."Shit," he muttered, setting her down with a reluctance she felt in his grip. "Bad timing."She laughed, shaky and breathless, smoothing her sweater as she slid off the counter. "Your shelf's a lightweight.""Unlike you." He stepped back, raking a hand through his hair, his chest heaving. "You're a goddamn hurricane."She grabbed her tablet, her legs wobbly but her voice steady. "Wall's mapped. Cabinets'll work. I'll send you specs tomorrow."He nodded, still watching her like he might pounce again. "Stay.""No." She snatched her bag, heading for the elevator before she could change her mind. "Midnight's over.""Harper—" The doors slid shut on his voice, cutting off whatever he'd been about to say.She slumped against the wall as the elevator descended, her body a live wire, her mind a mess. That kiss—those hands—had crossed a line she couldn't uncross. And worse? She didn't want to. Tomorrow, she'd face him again, and God help her, she was already counting the minutes.