Chapter 278
Alexander’s playful teasing carried a subtle undercurrent, like moonlight dancing just beyond reach.
Sunbeams streamed through the window, scattering across his collarbone, bathing him in a golden glow that made him even more mesmerizing than usual. His typically composed expression now held something softer, something that sent a fleeting shiver down Isabella’s spine—like the brush of a feather against bare skin.
“Then I’d like to take it off,” Isabella murmured, stepping closer and bending down to unfasten the clasp.
Just as Alexander had warned, the mechanism was stubborn, secured tightly. It took her longer than expected, her fingers fumbling slightly with the delicate catch. She should have focused solely on the necklace—especially since it bore such a striking resemblance to her late mother’s keepsake.
Yet, for a brief moment, her gaze strayed, lingering on the exposed column of his throat.
A few buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbone and a hint of his firm chest beneath. The pendant resting against his skin—cold, sleek, and undeniably alluring—stirred memories. The yacht. The way his body had moved with controlled strength. The unexpected softness of his skin beneath her fingertips.
“Ms. Sinclair, if you’re struggling, I can guide you,” Alexander murmured, his voice deep, like a secret whispered in the dark. “There’s a hidden clasp on the right side. Try loosening that first.”
His fingers brushed against the chain, tilting it toward her, and their hands met—just barely. The contrast was electric—his warmth against her cooler touch, a quiet hum of tension in the air. Isabella had never considered how a man’s skin could radiate such heat from something so simple.
“Perhaps it’s best if I handle it myself,” she muttered, breaking eye contact as she continued to work at the clasp.
But as her fingers skimmed over his skin, she noticed the faint flush that spread beneath her touch—a reaction she hadn’t expected.
“Are you feeling warm, Mr. Kingsley?”
“Not warm,” he replied, his voice even, though the ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips as he tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “Just… a little ticklish.”
It dawned on her then—when she had leaned in earlier, her hair must have brushed against his neck, sparking that faint blush. That explained the sudden warmth beneath her fingertips.
But even after he’d tucked her hair back, a few stubborn strands slipped free as she worked. She reached to gather them into a ponytail, but Alexander’s hand intercepted hers, his fingers—slightly rough from calluses—gently capturing the silken strands.
“Don’t trouble yourself with that, Ms. Sinclair. Just keep working on the necklace,” he said, his voice steady.
His touch was careful, almost reverent, as if her hair were something fragile. And all the while, his gaze remained fixed on her face—her lashes, the soft curve of her lips, the quiet concentration in her expression.
The scent of roses from the garden lingered between them, and the memory of her fingers against his skin left a tingling sensation that hadn’t yet faded.
“Thank you for earlier, Ms. Sinclair,” Alexander said, his voice roughened with fatigue. “I was buying a toy for Amelia when those two caused trouble. I should have stepped in sooner. You ended up caught in the middle.”
He sounded exhausted, drained from the day’s chaos, yet something about Isabella’s presence soothed him. The tension that had coiled in his shoulders all day eased, much like the persistent headaches that always seemed to lessen when he caught the scent of the perfume she had crafted.
In many ways, she was his remedy.
“No need to thank me, Mr. Kingsley,” Isabella replied, finally freeing the clasp. “We don’t have to be so formal. Besides, I didn’t suffer much.” She smiled slightly. “Compared to Damian and his mother, I find Ethan and Sophia far more unbearable.”
She held the necklace closer, studying its intricate design. The craftsmanship was unmistakable—identical to the bracelet her mother had left behind. Yet despite years of searching, she’d never found another trace of it.
“I’ll take a picture of it first,” she said, standing to send it to her contacts at Cobweb for investigation.
But as she straightened, her eyes unexpectedly met Alexander’s.
He had been lounging on the couch, but now he tilted his head up toward her. The distance between them was suddenly too close—close enough that if either of them moved even slightly, their lips might meet.
