The night air was freezing, but Bridget was sweating. She stood outside the massive double doors of the most expensive penthouse in Tribeca, clutching a bag of groceries to her chest.
She pressed her trembling finger against the doorbell.
The heavy door clicked open automatically. There was no butler, no maid. Just a cavernous, hyper-modern living room bathed in dim, voice-activated lighting.
Bridget stepped inside. She kicked off her heels and slipped her feet into the only pair of guest slippers available-a pair of men's slides that were three sizes too big. She shuffled awkwardly across the polished concrete floor, feeling like a child playing dress-up.
A harsh, hacking cough echoed from the living room.
Jevon was slouched deep into a custom Italian leather sofa. He was wearing loose, dark grey sweatpants and a matching t-shirt. He had taken out his contacts and was wearing a pair of thin, gold-rimmed glasses. The glasses stripped away his corporate armor, making him look dangerously devastating.
Bridget noticed the faint red marks still lingering on his neck. The heavy stone of guilt dropped back into her stomach.
She walked over, gripping her hands tightly in front of her. "Mr. Rocha, I am so sorry again about this afternoon."
Jevon took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I almost died, Ms. Frank. And now I'm starving in my own home."
Bridget bit her lip so hard it hurt. "What do you want to eat? I can order from the best restaurant in the city. I'll pay for it."
Jevon's eyes darkened. He leaned forward, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over her. "I told you. I don't trust outside food, You cook."
Bridget's face flushed. "Mr. Rocha, my cooking skills max out at microwaving frozen pizza."
Jevon pointed a long finger toward the massive, open-concept kitchen. "Boil some pasta. Now."
Crushed by the weight of her guilt and his absolute authority, Bridget shuffled toward the kitchen. The appliances looked like they belonged on a spaceship. She opened the massive double-door refrigerator and stared blankly at the perfectly organized rows of organic, high-end ingredients.
She found a box of artisanal pasta. She turned to the industrial gas stove and twisted a knob. A massive burst of blue flame shot up, nearly singeing her eyelashes. She yelped and jumped back.
From the sofa, Jevon rested his chin on his hand. His dark eyes tracked her every move. Watching her panic over the stove, the coldness in his chest melted entirely. The corners of his mouth twitched upward into a soft, hidden smile.
Bridget spun around, frantically looking for a pot. She grabbed a heavy bone-china soup pot from the drying rack. Her hands were slick with nervous sweat. The pot slipped from her grip.
It hit the floor with a deafening crash, shattering into dozens of sharp, jagged pieces.
Bridget let out a sharp cry. She immediately dropped to her knees, her hands reaching out to gather the broken shards.
Jevon's face hardened instantly. He vaulted over the back of the sofa and sprinted across the room.
"Don't touch it!" he roared.
He grabbed her wrists, hauling her up from the floor with terrifying speed. His grip was tight, his chest heaving as he checked her palms for blood.
Bridget flinched at his yelling. The stress of the day finally broke her. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over her cheeks. "I'm sorry! I ruin everything!"
Seeing her tears, the rage drained out of Jevon's body. He let out a heavy sigh, his thumbs instinctively brushing over her pulse points.
He guided her to a high stool at the kitchen island and pressed her down by her shoulders. "Sit. Do not move."
The billionaire CEO rolled up the sleeves of his sweatpants. He grabbed a broom and dustpan, sweeping up the shattered china with practiced efficiency.
When the floor was clean, Jevon walked over to the sink, washed his hands, and picked up a heavy chef's knife. He looked at Bridget, his eyes intense.
"I'll cook," he stated.
