Chapter 8: Aftershocks

Harper woke Friday morning with a headache that pulsed like a drumbeat and a body that felt like it had been run over by a freight train named Zane Carver. Her apartment was a dim cocoon, the blinds drawn tight against the gray dawn, but nothing could block out the memories crashing through her skull. Last night—wine, arguments, his hands tearing at her dress, their mouths locked in a frantic, clothes-ripping collision on his bed—played on a loop, vivid and relentless. She groaned, rolling over to bury her face in the pillow, the faint scent of his shirt—cedar and leather—clinging to her skin from the one she'd worn home.She'd fled the penthouse at midnight, her dress in tatters under his oversized button-down, her lips swollen and her pride bruised. That kiss—God, that makeout session—had been a wildfire, consuming every shred of restraint she'd clung to. And then he'd stopped, pulling back with that damn noble "not like this" line, leaving her a mess of frustration and want. She'd wanted to scream, to shove him back onto that bed and finish what they'd started, but instead she'd run, the elevator doors slamming shut on his promise: Tomorrow. 6 p.m. We talk.Now, sprawled across her lumpy mattress, she stared at the ceiling, her body still humming with the echo of his touch. Her dress lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, a casualty of their chaos, and she kicked it under the bed with a muttered curse. She couldn't face him today—not with her head pounding and her resolve in shreds—but the master suite specs needed final tweaks, and she'd promised to deliver. Professionalism was her last shield, and she'd wield it like armor, no matter how flimsy it felt.By noon, she'd showered off the wine and shame, dressed in a navy blazer and skirt—severe, buttoned-up, a deliberate contrast to last night's reckless burgundy—and downed enough coffee to steady her hands. Her tablet was loaded with revised sketches: a sleeker chaise, a darker navy for the walls, a compromise on the tub size to appease his "function over fluff" mantra. She'd emailed him a curt Specs updated. Penthouse at 6? and gotten a single-word reply: Yes. No flirtation, no taunt—just a blank slate that left her stomach knotted.The subway ride to Manhattan was a blur, her reflection in the window a pale, determined stranger. She rehearsed her lines—Last night was a mistake. We keep this professional. No more—but they felt hollow, undermined by the ache that flared every time she thought of his hands on her thighs, his growl against her neck. By the time she stepped into the penthouse elevator at 5:58 p.m., her nerves were a tight coil, ready to snap.The doors opened, and the space was quiet—no jazz, no clink of whiskey, just the hum of the city beyond the windows. Zane stood in the living room, his back to her, staring out at the skyline. He'd traded last night's casual edge for a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, his hair tamed, his posture rigid. The leather couch loomed behind him, a silent witness to their unraveling, and her stomach flipped as she set her bag on the island, clearing her throat."Zane," she said, her voice sharper than intended. "Specs are here. Let's make this quick."He turned, slow and deliberate, his gray eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her falter. "Quick's not my style," he said, his tone low, crossing the room with that predatory grace that set her on edge. "You know that."She straightened, clutching her tablet like a lifeline. "Last night was a mistake. Too much wine, too much… everything. We're working together, and I need this to stay professional."He stopped a foot away, hands in his pockets, studying her like she was a puzzle he'd already solved. "Professional," he echoed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "That why you're dressed like a nun today?"Her jaw tightened, heat creeping up her neck. "I'm dressed for work. Unlike some people, I don't live in chaos.""Chaos suits me." He stepped closer, his gaze flicking over her blazer, her skirt, then back to her face. "And it suits you, too, when you let it.""I don't," she snapped, sidestepping him to spread her sketches on the coffee table, avoiding the couch like it was radioactive. "Master suite updates—chaise is slimmer, walls darker, tub's practical. Approve them, and I'm out."He didn't move to the sketches, just watched her, his silence heavier than words. "You're running again.""I'm not running," she said, flipping open her tablet, her fingers trembling slightly. "I'm working. Something you should try.""I'm working plenty." He closed the distance again, leaning over the table beside her, his arm brushing hers as he picked up a sketch. "This is good. Darker's better. But you're dodging the real conversation.""There's no conversation," she said, snatching the sketch back, her voice rising. "Last night happened. It's done. We move on.""Done?" His laugh was sharp, edged with frustration, and he straightened, towering over her. "You think I can just move on from that? From you tearing my shirt off, moaning my name?"Her face burned, memories flashing—his hands, her nails, the bed shaking. "Stop it," she hissed, stepping back, but he followed, relentless."Why?" His voice dropped, rough and raw. "Because you liked it? Because you're scared you'll do it again?""I'm not scared," she lied, her back hitting the island, trapping her as he loomed closer. "I'm smart. This—" She gestured between them, her hand shaking. "It's a liability. I can't afford it.""And I can't afford to pretend it didn't happen." He braced his hands on the island, caging her in, his face inches from hers. "You want professional? Fine. But don't lie to me—or yourself—about what's here."Her breath caught, his heat enveloping her, his scent—cedar, soap, him—short-circuiting her resolve. "Zane—""Tell me you don't feel it," he murmured, his lips hovering near hers, his eyes dark with a hunger that mirrored her own. "Tell me, and I'll back off."She opened her mouth, the denial ready, but it died on her tongue. Because she did feel it—every pulse, every spark, every reckless want screaming through her veins. "I can't," she whispered, and that was all he needed.He moved, slow this time, deliberate, his hand sliding to her jaw, tilting her face up as he closed the gap. His lips brushed hers—soft, teasing, a stark contrast to last night's frenzy—and she froze, caught between pushing him away and pulling him in. He lingered, tasting her hesitation, then deepened it, a slow, sensual sweep of his tongue that unraveled her. Her hands fisted in his shirt, not tearing this time, just holding on as he kissed her like he was savoring her, drawing out every shiver, every sigh.The elevator dinged behind them, a distant warning, but he didn't stop—just pressed her harder against the island, his body aligning with hers, his free hand sliding to her hip. She kissed him back, tentative at first, then bolder, her tongue meeting his in a dance that reignited every nerve he'd lit last night. His groan vibrated through her, his fingers tightening, and she felt the spark flare into something dangerous again.Footsteps echoed—his assistant, maybe, or a delivery—and he pulled back, his breath ragged, his forehead pressed to hers. "Fuck," he muttered, stepping away just as a voice called out, "Mr. Carver?""Busy," he barked, his eyes never leaving hers, dark and molten. The footsteps retreated, the elevator whirring again, and he smirked, brushing his thumb across her swollen lips. "Professional enough for you?"She glared, shoving at his chest, her voice shaky. "You're impossible.""You're welcome." He stepped back, letting her grab her bag, but his gaze pinned her in place. "Specs are approved. Tomorrow, 5 p.m. Kitchen updates."She nodded, fleeing to the elevator, her lips tingling, her body a traitor that wanted to stay. The doors closed on his silhouette—shirt rumpled, eyes blazing—and she slumped against the wall, her heart pounding. Professional was a pipe dream now. That kiss—slow, deliberate, a promise of more—had shattered it, and she wasn't sure she could rebuild the walls he kept tearing down.