(Ethan's POV)
The charity gala for the Carter Foundation's new art initiative had been a success, a carefully orchestrated evening of networking and philanthropy. But it was also a minefield, a constant reminder of the tension between Claire and me.
We'd managed to maintain a semblance of professionalism throughout the evening, but the air crackled with unspoken words and unresolved feelings. Every glance, every shared smile, every accidental touch was a spark in a tinderbox.
As the gala wound down, and the crowd began to disperse, Sarah approached me, her expression apologetic.
"Ethan," she said, her voice hesitant, "there's been a mix-up with the catering. They've prepared a private dinner for you and Claire, thinking you'd want to discuss some final design details in a quieter setting."
I groaned inwardly. A private dinner with Claire? It was the last thing I wanted. Or, rather, it was exactly what I wanted, but under the wrong circumstances.
"Can't we just reschedule?" I asked, my voice tight.
"I'm afraid not," Sarah said, her voice apologetic. "They've already set everything up. It would be a waste of food and resources."
I sighed, knowing she was right. I couldn't refuse. It would be rude, unprofessional.
"Fine," I said, my voice resigned. "But make it clear that this is strictly business."
Sarah nodded, her expression sympathetic. "Of course, Ethan. I'll let Claire know."
A few minutes later, Claire approached me, her expression a mixture of apprehension and resignation.
"So," she said, her voice tight, "it seems we're having dinner."
"It's just dinner," I said, my voice clipped. "A chance to discuss the final details."
"Right," she said, her voice dry. "Business."
We walked to the private dining room in silence, the air thick with unspoken words. The room was elegant, intimate, with soft lighting and a single table set for two. It was the perfect setting for a romantic dinner, not a business meeting.
We sat down, the silence stretching between us like a tightrope. I tried to focus on the blueprints spread out on the table, but my eyes kept drifting to Claire.
She looked stunning, her dress a simple but elegant black number that clung to her curves. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a loose bun, revealing the delicate curve of her neck.
"So," I said, breaking the silence, "let's talk about the lobby lighting."
"Right," she said, her voice tight. "The lobby lighting."
We spent the next hour discussing the lighting, the color scheme, the furniture placement. It was a professional conversation, but the undercurrent of tension was undeniable.
Every time our eyes met, every time our hands brushed against each other, the spark between us ignited, threatening to consume us both.
As the dinner progressed, the tension grew, the unspoken words hanging in the air like a heavy weight. It was like we were playing a dangerous game, dancing on the edge of a precipice.
Finally, as we finished our dessert, I couldn't take it anymore.
"Claire," I said, my voice low, "we need to talk."
"About what?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
"About us," I said, my voice rough. "About what's happening between us."
She looked away, her gaze drifting across the table. "There is no 'us,' Ethan," she said, her voice tight.
"That's a lie," I said, my voice firm. "And you know it."
She didn't answer. She just sat there, her shoulders stiff, her posture rigid.
"Look," I said, taking a deep breath, "I know we're both afraid. But we can't keep pretending that nothing's happening. We have to face the truth."
"And what if the truth hurts?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"Then we'll deal with it," I said, my voice low. "Together."
(Claire's POV)
The private dinner was a disaster waiting to happen. It was too intimate, too charged, too dangerous. But I couldn't refuse. It would have been rude, unprofessional.
As we sat down at the table, the silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken words and unresolved feelings. I tried to focus on the blueprints, to maintain a professional facade, but it was impossible.
Ethan looked devastatingly handsome, his eyes dark and intense, his gaze lingering on mine. It was like he was trying to see into my soul, to unravel the secrets I was trying to hide.
We talked about the design, the colors, the furniture, but the conversation was a mere distraction, a thin veil over the emotions that simmered beneath the surface.
Every time our eyes met, every time our hands brushed against each other, the spark between us ignited, sending a jolt of electricity through me.
As the dinner progressed, the tension grew, the unspoken words hanging in the air like a heavy weight. It was like we were playing a dangerous game, dancing on the edge of a precipice.
When Ethan finally spoke, his voice low and intense, I knew we couldn't avoid the truth any longer.
"Claire," he said, his voice rough, "we need to talk."
"About what?" I asked, my voice barely audible.
"About us," he said, his voice firm. "About what's happening between us."
I looked away, unable to meet his gaze. I was afraid of the truth, afraid of what it would mean.
"There is no 'us,' Ethan," I said, my voice tight.
"That's a lie," he said, his voice low. "And you know it."
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
"Look," he said, taking a deep breath, "I know we're both afraid. But we can't keep pretending that nothing's happening. We have to face the truth."
"And what if the truth hurts?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"Then we'll deal with it," he said, his voice low. "Together."
His words were like a promise, a challenge, a temptation. And as I looked into his eyes, I knew I couldn't run anymore. I had to face the truth, whatever it might be.