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"I am." He pressed his lips to my neck, finding the sensitive spot that never failed to make me shiver. "Just wait until you see how I've reorganized the kitchen cabinets."

I pulled back, alarm flashing through me. "You didn't."

The smile that spread across his face was pure mischief—an expression I'd never have believed possible on Lucas Turner's features weeks ago. "I did. Everything alphabetized. Color-coded labels. Inventory spreadsheet."

"You're joking."

"Am I?" His expression gave nothing away. "Only one way to find out."

As I darted to the kitchen to check, his laughter followed me—warm, genuine, unguarded. I yanked open cabinet doors to find everything exactly as we'd left it the night before, my chaotic collection still disrupting his precise organization.

"Very funny," I called, returning to find him watching me with undisguised amusement. "I almost believed you."

"I know." He pulled me back into his arms. "That's what made it so entertaining."

This—his playfulness, his willingness to joke at his own expense—was yet another revelation. Another facet of the man I was continuing to discover beneath the controlled exterior.

"Lucas Turner has a sense of humor," I marveled, pretending shock. "Alert the media."

"Don't you dare." He kissed me, effectively ending the teasing. "That particular revelation is for you alone."

As his lips claimed mine with familiar hunger, I surrendered to the now-familiar current between us. We were both still learning, still adjusting, finding our way through this uncharted territory.

But for the first time, standing in the morning light of a home that was gradually becoming ours rather than his, I felt something settle inside me. Not complacency. Not surrender. But certainty.

We would make mistakes. Would challenge each other. Would occasionally clash where our fundamental differences couldn't be bridged by compromise.

But we would do it together. As equals. As partners.

And that made all the difference.

Chapter 23

Lucas

Imade the last-minute decision to attend the board meeting, and I have to say, watching Savannah across the boardroom as she delivered the Westlake presentation with flawless precision, I felt something that defied control entirely.

Pride mingled with a possessiveness I had no right to display in this setting.

As agreed, I'd recused myself from direct oversight of her projects. Had maintained professional distance throughout the meeting. Had addressed her as "Ms. Blake" with the same formal courtesy I extended to any consultant.

Yet my body responded to her presence with the same visceral recognition it had from our first meeting—a low hum of awareness that heightened every sense.

The confident set of her shoulders as she walked the board through market projections. The slight flush that colored her cheeks when she fielded challenging questions.

The fleeting glance in my direction when Reynolds attempted to undermine a key campaign element.

But beneath her polished performance, I caught subtle signs that no one else would notice—the way she gripped her waterglass a moment longer than necessary, the almost imperceptible pause before she stood to advance her slides.

Her energy was fragile today, as if she were running on determination alone. When she thought no one was looking, I saw her press her fingertips briefly to her temple, and twice she shifted her weight in a way that suggested she needed the support of the table behind her.

She was crushing the presentation—her arguments were flawless, her data compelling—but something was off. I'd learned to read the subtle language of her body over these months together, and today she seemed to be fighting against herself in some indefinable way.

I gave nothing away.

Maintained the perfect neutral expression of a CEO evaluating a presentation on its merits alone.

Inside, I seethed at Reynolds's transparent attempt to assert dominance over her—a display meant to establish hierarchy now that her relationship with me was public knowledge.