Chapter 2: Muffins and Morning Regret

The kitchen smelled like slightly charred chocolate at six-thirty the next morning. I stood in the doorway, arms crossed over my ratty sweatshirt, staring at the evidence I'd failed to destroy. Three muffins sat on a plate like tiny accusations. One had a perfect bite taken out of it.

Cristian leaned against the marble island, coffee mug in hand, looking far too awake for someone who'd been up half the night pacing. His sandy hair fell across his forehead in that unfairly charming way. Sleeves already rolled to his forearms. The man treated casual like a board meeting.

"Morning," he said, voice low and measured with that faint British clip. He lifted the half-eaten muffin. "These aren't terrible. Contrary to your claims."

Heat flooded my cheeks. Great. Just great. I'd stress-baked like a lunatic, hidden most of the batch in a napkin-wrapped bundle at the bottom of the trash, and somehow missed one on the counter. My secret shame on full display.

"I said they were terrible," I muttered, moving to the fridge like it might offer me an escape hatch. The cool air hit my face and my stomach did a warning flip. Not now. Please not now.

He hummed a few bars of something classical under his breath. Chopin again. The sound vibrated through the quiet kitchen and straight into my spine. "Evidence suggests otherwise. Unless this is part of an elaborate plot to poison me slowly."

I grabbed the orange juice, mostly to have something to do with my hands. My mother's ring twisted on my finger, the metal warm from constant fidgeting. "If I wanted to poison you, I'd use something more elegant than chocolate chip muffins."

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough to crack that icy exterior I'd counted on. The sight did dangerous things to my pulse. This was the problem with forced proximity. You started noticing how his pale fingers wrapped around the mug, gentle in a way that didn't match the ruthless reputation.

"Noted," he said dryly. "I'll watch for more sophisticated attempts."

I poured juice into a glass, willing my hand not to shake. The storm had eased overnight, but the mountain air still pressed against the windows like it wanted in. Eight weeks of this. Eight weeks of him finding my 2 a.m. disasters and turning them into these almost-playful exchanges that made my walls feel paper-thin.

My stomach rolled again, harder this time. The lentil, as I'd taken to calling it in my head, clearly had opinions about post-storm breakfast. I set the glass down too fast. Juice sloshed over the rim.

Cristian straightened. Those blue-grey eyes narrowed, analytical as ever. "You look pale. More than usual."

"Altitude," I said quickly. Too quickly. The word came out clipped, like I was presenting quarterly reports instead of lying through my teeth. "Takes a few days to adjust. I'm fine."

He didn't look convinced. Of course he didn't. The man built an empire on spotting variables that didn't compute. I could feel his gaze tracking me as I wiped up the spill, my efficient grace turning clumsy under the scrutiny.

"We have the first board update to prepare," he said after a beat, changing tack. His voice stayed even, but I caught the undercurrent of something else. "Lila's expecting it by noon. We should work in the study."

I nodded, grateful for the shift. Work. I could do work. Data analysis didn't care about morning sickness or the way his MIT t-shirt had stretched across his shoulders last night. "I'll grab my laptop."

The study smelled like leather and pine from the crackling fireplace. Massive oak desk dominated the center, positioned so two people could sit side by side without touching. Theoretically. I chose the chair farthest from his usual spot, but he pulled out the one right next to it.

"Easier to review the files together," he explained, as if that made perfect sense. As if the heat from his arm wouldn't radiate across the six inches between us.

I sat. My leggings dug into my waist again, a constant reminder that nothing fit quite right anymore. I tugged my sweater down, hyper-aware of every movement. Cristian opened his laptop, fingers flying across the keys with that deliberate grace. The humming started almost immediately. Bach this time. The notes wrapped around us like smoke.

We dove into the update. Leaked algorithms. Regulatory questions. Marcus's veiled suggestions that Cristian had lost control. The words blurred on my screen as his shoulder brushed mine reaching for a notepad. Warmth seeped through my sleeve. My pulse kicked up, stupid and traitorous.

"Your analysis on the breach patterns is solid," he said, leaning closer to point at my spreadsheet. His breath ghosted my temple. "But you've flagged an anomaly here. Care to elaborate?"

I tried to focus on the numbers. Really. But his pale fingers rested inches from mine on the desk, and memories of that one night flooded back uninvited. Those same fingers on my skin, mapping me like code he wanted to crack. I shifted in my seat.

"It looks like the leak originated from an internal test server," I said, proud that my voice didn't waver. Much. "Not external. Someone with high-level access."

He nodded, humming again. The sound vibrated low in his chest. I wondered if he knew what it did to me. Probably not. Cristian Moriarty didn't do casual observation of his own effect on people. He was too busy controlling every variable.

My stomach lurched suddenly, vicious and unexpected. Not the gentle queasiness from before. This was full revolt. I clamped a hand over my mouth, chair scraping back as I bolted for the door.

"Stella?"

I didn't answer. The hallway bathroom was ten steps away, but it felt like a mile. I made it just in time, locking the door behind me with shaking fingers. The tile was cold under my knees. Morning sickness, my ass. This felt like the lentil was trying to stage a coup.

He knocked softly a minute later. "Stella. Talk to me."

"Altitude," I gasped between heaves. Humiliating. Absolutely mortifying. The brilliant data analyst reduced to retching in her billionaire boss's guest bath while he waited outside like some concerned Victorian gentleman.

"You've said that. It doesn't explain why it hit right after mentioning the breach." His voice stayed clinical, but I caught the edge of worry. Or suspicion. With him, they sounded the same. "Do you need water? Medicine? I can have Lila send something up from town."

"No." The word came out sharper than I meant. I flushed the toilet, rinsed my mouth, and stared at my reflection. Pale. Sweaty. Eyes too wide. My wavy dark hair stuck to my forehead. I tucked it behind my ears, the nervous habit giving me something to do. "I'm fine. Just... adjusting."

Silence stretched on the other side of the door. I could picture him standing there, posture perfect, fingers drumming once against his thigh as he analyzed the new data point. Me. Throwing up after working too closely with him.

"This isn't like you," he said finally. Soft. Too soft. "The resignation. The baking. Now this. If there's something wrong, something the board shouldn't know about—"

I yanked the door open before he could finish. He stood closer than expected, blue-grey eyes searching my face like it held answers to questions I couldn't afford to let him ask. His sandy hair had fallen forward again. I resisted the insane urge to push it back.

"It's not corporate espionage, if that's what you're thinking," I said, forcing a dry laugh that sounded more like a wheeze. "No secret boyfriend leaking files. No dramatic pregnancy scandal. Just bad timing and worse coffee."

The lie burned on my tongue. I twisted my mother's ring so hard it pinched. He noticed, of course. Those eyes dropped to my hands, then back up. Something flickered there. Not quite belief. Not quite doubt.

"I don't drink bad coffee," he said, deadpan. The attempt at humor landed like a life raft in choppy water. I grabbed it.

"Then maybe it's your fault for stocking only the fancy stuff. My system rebels against quality."

He didn't smile, but the humming started again, softer. Bach's prelude, the one that always sounded like rain on windows. We stood there in the hallway, the estate's exposed beams looming above us, and for one stupid second I let myself imagine what it would be like if I just told him. If I stopped running escape routes in my head.

The moment shattered when my stomach gave another warning gurgle. I pressed a hand to it instinctively, then dropped it like I'd been burned. Too late. His gaze followed the movement.

"You should rest," he said. The words carried weight. Not an order, exactly, but close. That protective streak I'd glimpsed during the blackout was surfacing again. It made my skin prickle. "I'll finish the update. Send it to Lila myself."

"I can work," I insisted, because admitting weakness felt like handing over my independence on a silver platter. My mother had done that. Leaned on unreliable men until they left her with nothing but debt and a daughter who learned early that control was the only safety.

He studied me another beat. Then nodded once. "As you wish. But if it happens again, we're calling a doctor. Isolation or not."

The rest of the morning passed in careful distance. I worked from the opposite end of the great room, laptop balanced on my knees by the fireplace. He stayed in the study. Every so often I'd hear him humming, the notes carrying through the quiet like an unwanted caress. My body responded anyway. Traitorous thing.

By afternoon the sun broke through the clouds, turning the mountain views into something postcard-perfect. I wandered to the kitchen for water and found him there, organizing his coffee beans by roast like the control freak he was. The counter still held the plate of muffins. One missing now.

"You ate another one," I said, surprised.

He glanced up, pale fingers pausing on a bag of Ethiopian blend. "They're growing on me. Much like your company."

The words hung there, heavier than they should have. I felt my neck warm. This was bad. The tension wasn't just from the one-night stand anymore. It was in the shared silences, the way he watched me when he thought I wasn't looking. Like I was a puzzle he couldn't stop solving.

"Don't get attached," I muttered, half to myself. "Eight weeks isn't forever."

But it felt like it might be. Especially when night fell and the fireplace became our default gathering spot. I curled in one of the oversized armchairs, weighted blanket dragged down from my room because pretending I didn't need it felt pointless now. The thing pressed heavy on my legs, a poor substitute for the comfort I actually craved but wouldn't name.

Cristian sat across from me, nursing a scotch he barely touched. The fire painted gold across his features, softening the sharp lines of his jaw. He looked almost approachable like this. Human. The kind of man who might understand secrets instead of weaponizing them.

"Tell me something real," he said suddenly. His voice cut through the crackle of logs. "Not work. Not deflections. Why the resignation, Stella? The real one."

I twisted the ring. The fire felt too warm now. My throat tightened with the familiar mix of fear and that dangerous longing. Companionship. Someone who saw the cracks and didn't flinch. But telling him meant depending on him. Meant becoming my mother, chasing unreliable warmth until it burned everything down.

"I lost my parents young," I said instead, editing carefully. The words came out precise, like a report. "Car accident. After that it was foster homes and scholarships and building something no one could take away. The job... it stopped feeling like mine."

He listened without interrupting. That was new. Most people filled silences. Cristian let them breathe.

"My ex-wife taught me similar lessons," he offered after a long pause. The admission seemed to cost him. His fingers tightened on the glass. "She married the company more than me. When it grew, she tried to carve out her piece. Left me with trust issues and a preference for solo board meetings."

The video call alert chimed from his laptop on the side table. Marcus. Right on schedule. The timing felt engineered to ruin moments.

Cristian answered, screen lighting up with the older man's silver-haired face. Marcus smiled that calculated smile, the one that never reached his eyes. "Cristian. Stella. Hope isolation is proving... productive."

His tone dripped false warmth. I sat up straighter under my blanket, pulse racing for entirely different reasons now.

"Update's sent," Cristian said, all business again. The humming had stopped. "Breach analysis points internal. We'll have more by next week."

Marcus leaned back, gesturing broadly even through the camera. "Good, good. Though secrets have a way of surfacing in close quarters, don't they? All that quiet. All that time to notice things."

The words landed like a threat wrapped in silk. My hand moved to my stomach without thinking. I caught myself and gripped the blanket instead. Cristian's gaze flicked to me, then back to the screen. His posture had gone rigid.

"If you have something to say, Marcus, say it," Cristian replied, voice low and edged.

The board member chuckled. "Just advice from an old mentor. Eight weeks can change everything. Or reveal it. Try not to get distracted by... complications."

The call ended abruptly, screen going dark. The fire popped loudly in the sudden silence. I felt exposed, raw, like Marcus had seen through the miles and the storm and straight into my traitor body.

Cristian closed the laptop with deliberate care. Then he stood, crossing to my chair in two strides. He loomed there, 6'3" of controlled intensity, blue-grey eyes locked on mine. The air thickened between us, charged with everything unsaid.

His gaze dropped deliberately to where my hand had instinctively gone earlier, hovering now near my middle like it could shield the lentil from scrutiny. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I worried he could hear it.

"You're hiding something," he said quietly. The words carried that deadpan wit, but underneath lurked something sharper. "And before these eight weeks are over, I will know every last secret. The question is whether I'll want to punish you for it... or keep you."

I stared up at him, throat dry, walls crumbling faster than I could rebuild them. The weighted blanket suddenly felt like it was pressing on my chest instead of my legs. His pale fingers flexed at his sides, inches from touching me again.

The fire crackled on, oblivious. Outside, fresh snow began to fall, sealing us in tighter.