A subtle tension clings to the air as I fit the key into my apartment door, turning it slowly with deliberate care. The faint sound of the lock clicking open feels heavier than usual, weighed down by the apprehension swirling inside me. Behind me, Sophia hesitates, her slight tremble betraying nerves she’s otherwise determined to mask.
She steps inside, tentative footsteps echoing softly across the polished floor. Her fingers clutch the collar of my jacket, still draped loosely around her shoulders, as if it’s an anchor offering some protection in this unfamiliar space. I watch her carefully, shadows dancing across her face in the dim light, wondering if this unfamiliarity will make her retreat.
There’s an unpredictability about her that unsettles me, yet intrigues me in equal measure. I want her to stay. I want to see where this fragile thread between us might lead. Her vulnerability would normally stir a pang of guilt in me—especially if this was just another meaningless night—but there’s a spark in her eyes, a quiet resolve beneath the nerves, that pulls me in.
Finally, she meets my gaze, her lips curling into a tentative smile that feels like a small victory. I return it warmly, relief washing over us both in that simple exchange. "Make yourself at home," I say, my voice steady as I toss my keys onto the cool steel countertop of my kitchen.
"This is quite the shag pad you’ve got," Sophia quips, her voice light and teasing as she watches me. Her grin is playful, challenging, and I can’t help but smirk back.
"Conveniently close to work," I reply, brushing off the comment with casual ease. Truthfully, I’ve had many women through this place; the term isn’t unwarranted.
She moves gracefully around the open-plan room, curiosity sparkling in her eyes as she absorbs the minimalist decor. "And what is it you do for work?" she asks, genuinely interested as her gaze lingers on the sleek surfaces and muted tones.
"I’m a barrister," I answer, aware that she probably knows exactly why she’s here, yet enjoying this rare pause—a moment of small talk before anything else.
"I guessed as much," she says, pulling my jacket from her shoulders and folding it neatly over the back of the sofa. "You don’t wear a suit like that unless you’ve got a high-brow job to go with it." Her eyes drift to the impressive 60-inch plasma screen mounted on the wall. "What is it with men and ridiculously big TVs?"
I step close beside her, a half-smile tugging at my lips. "What do you mean?"
She throws me a mischievous sideways glance. "Is a television that size really necessary?"
"Absolutely," I say, my grin widening.
Her smile falters only slightly as she shakes her head. "I’m always wary of a man with a TV that big. It’s like compensation for something else—maybe the trouser department?"
Laughter bubbles up from deep within me. "I can promise you, there’s never been a complaint about that." I glance down at myself, amused by the boldness of this woman who, despite her nerves, says exactly what’s on her mind.
"Guess I’ll find out for myself if that myth holds true," she teases, one eyebrow arching as she saunters away with a playful sway.
Her teasing sends a rush through me, igniting a fire that’s becoming harder to contain. "Can I get you a drink?" I ask, though it’s more for my own need to steady the growing excitement.
"Do you have any wine?" Sophia asks brightly, watching me move toward the steel-clad kitchenette.
"No wine, but I’ve got a bottle of champagne in the fridge," I offer, pulling open the fridge door.
She nods approvingly, coming closer to lean casually against the counter. "Champagne sounds perfect." Her hands glide over the cool steel surface, eyes fixed on mine as I carefully uncork the bottle, the sudden pop slicing through the quiet tension.
I pour the sparkling liquid into two tall flutes, glancing around the apartment. It’s everything she said—masculine, sleek, with no trace of softness or personal clutter. A large brown leather Chesterfield dominates the living area, walnut shelves hold only the essentials, and the space feels deliberately uncluttered.
It’s a place to retreat, not a home. I bought it to escape my mother’s ever-watchful presence, to keep my private life just that—private. We share an office, her influence looms there, but here, in this stripped-back sanctuary, she can’t reach me. The apartment is a fortress of solitude, much like the walls I’ve built around myself.
Handing Sophia her glass, I break the silence. "Tell me about yourself," I say, surprising myself with how much I want to know.
Her slender fingers curl around the flute as she offers a shy smile. "There’s not much to tell," she begins softly. "I’m twenty-nine, and a florist. My mum owns the shop, but she’s looking to retire soon, so I’m pretty much running it now."
"Local shop?" I ask, curiosity genuine.
She nods, warmth blooming across her features. "Heaven Scent, right in the heart of town. It’s been there for over thirty years. It belonged to my nan before mum took over after she passed."
The simplicity of her story, the love woven through her words—it’s a stark contrast to my own complicated lineage. "So flowers run in your blood," I muse.
She chuckles quietly. "You could say that." She takes a sip of champagne, then turns the tables with a thoughtful gaze. "Are you from a long line of barristers?"
I smirk, echoing her phrasing. "You could say that." I withhold the details of my firm, not wanting the weight of my family name to color the moment. The Lapley name carries baggage—power, ruthlessness, cold calculation—but tonight, I want to be just Cade. Just a man drawn to a woman who challenges and intrigues him.
For this night, I refuse to let the legacy define me. I want to explore the possibility that what we have might be more than a fleeting encounter. That this moment, fragile and unguarded, could be the start of something real.