“But we were chatting about literature,” he said in a throaty voice. His warm breath brushed the fine hairs at her temple as his arms bracketed her body with delicious restraint.

She sensed his lips were far too close; her breath hitched and she opened her eyes. “I’m sure we can pick this chat up another time,” she said in a shaky voice. Must control yourself. She willed herself not to appear rattled by this embrace, which may have not been an embrace at all.

He released her and stepped back. “I hope so.” She heard a trace of humor in his voice.

Antonia snapped out of her trance, quickly dried her hands off with a nearby dish towel, and moved out of the kitchen. She couldn’t bear to look at him at that moment. She was terrified of what she might see. Another man who looked at her with lust; a man who wasn’t Derek. What was she thinking? Her face burned with embarrassment. Where is Derek now? He was still in Chicago, unconcerned with her or her feelings. Why on earth am I afraid of this new man?

“Antonia,” he said.

Her hand was on his front door. She hesitated before turning back to him. “Sorry,” she said, meeting his gaze. Aiden cocked his head to the side and regarded her with curiosity. “I hate to eat and run...”

“Have a good writing day,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets, pushing the waist of his already low-slung jeans, even lower.

She had to get out of there. “You too,” she said, forcing a smile.

“Yeah, well, talking to you was helpful,” he said, moving closer to her. “I might actually start my paper today.”

And her character, Bryon, was about to come to life. “Good!” she said a little too loudly. Antonia cleared her throat and opened the door. She needed some air. “I’ll see you around.” Only when she finally made her escape did Antonia feel relief. The cold morning air hit her in the face and brought her back down to earth. She didn’t want to fly higher, closer to the sun that was Aiden. If she wasn’t careful, he could burn her up.

Chapter Twelve

This was a surprise that Bryon hadn’t counted on. Before him stood a very disheveled and very angry Augusta Sinclair, clutching a briefcase and phone in both hands. After all these years, she was still seething. He couldn’t help but smile.

“What brings you to the Windy City, Caesar?”

“Don’t call me that!” she snapped at him. She hated that nickname, but it always made him laugh. Even though it wasn’t quite her namesake, she had to admit that sometimes she could be a bit of a dictator. “What are you doing here? Ugh, never mind.” She turned on her heel and stalked toward the building that he also meant to enter. This is going to be interesting.

“Where are you headed in such a hurry?”

“Don’t follow me,” Augusta shouted over her shoulder. “I don’t want to talk to you.”