The Promotion

Chapter Eighteen

The first night at Alexander's house felt endless.

Sleep refused to come, no matter how still I lay. I tossed onto my side, then onto my back, then onto my stomach, the sheets tangling around my legs like they were trying to trap me. Eventually I kicked the duvet off entirely, stretching out flat on the mattress, arms and legs splayed, staring up at the ceiling.

I squeezed my eyes shut, jaw clenched tight, and let out a frustrated groan through my teeth.

Nothing.

When I opened my eyes again, the room was steeped in darkness, broken only by a thin ribbon of moonlight slipping through the curtains. It traced the edge of the wardrobe, spilled faintly across the floor, and disappeared beneath the bed.

I reached for my phone on the bedside table.

The sudden brightness stung my eyes. I blinked rapidly until the screen came into focus.

12:07 a.m.

With a quiet huff, I dropped the phone back onto the table. The soft thud echoed in the silence, far louder than it should have been.

I rolled onto my stomach again, folding my arms beneath me and resting my chin on them. The pillow smelled clean—lavender and something else faintly woody. Probably the detergent Maggie used. Or maybe it was just this house. Everything here smelled... calm.

My mind, unfortunately, was anything but.

Without meaning to, my thoughts drifted back to earlier—to the ice cream parlour, to the warmth of the booth, to the way Alexander had looked across the table at me like he had nowhere else he wanted to be.

The evening had been spontaneous, almost silly in its simplicity, yet it lingered in my chest like something precious. We hadn't talked about work. We hadn't talked about expectations or schedules or responsibilities.

We had just talked.

He told me stories about his father—little things, like how he used to tap his pen against the desk when he was thinking, or how he insisted on Sunday dinners no matter how busy work became. He spoke about his childhood, his hobbies, the quiet things that mattered to him.

I could have listened to him forever.

His voice—low, steady, warm—wrapped around me like a familiar melody. The way he spoke, how certain words were emphasised, how his accent softened when he was relaxed. Everything about him felt effortless.

And with him, talking felt easy.

Too easy.

I hadn't realised how much I'd shared about myself until the words were already out. My childhood. My fears. Things I never usually spoke about. Yet with Alexander, it felt safe. Like he was holding the space open for me, not judging, not interrupting—just listening.

My thoughts shifted, unbidden, to the way he'd eaten his ice cream.

The spoon between his fingers. The way his lips closed around it slowly, deliberately, before he drew it back out. How he'd licked a smear of strawberry sauce from the back of the spoon, then his thumb, then his lips.

Heat stirred low in my stomach.

I realised I was biting my bottom lip and forced myself to stop.

God, get a grip.

My throat felt suddenly dry. Parched. I glanced at the bedside table again, then toward the door.

Water.

I hesitated.

Was it strange to wander through Alexander's house in the middle of the night? To treat it like my own? I was staying here, yes—but this wasn't my home. Not really.