After His Sister Pushed Me Down the Stairs

The clock on my nightstand read 11:42 PM when I couldn't resist testing him again.

"I'm starving," I announced, padding into the kitchen where Quentin was reviewing documents. "I have this crazy craving for Brooklyn Cronuts' raspberry cronut. The ones with the gold leaf on top."

Quentin looked up, his expression unreadable. "There are twenty-four-hour diners in Manhattan."

"Not the same," I insisted, letting my lower lip protrude in a pout. "It has to be Brooklyn Cronuts. They have a three-hour line even at midnight."

I expected him to dismiss me or send one of his staff. Instead, he set down his pen.

"Fine. I'll have someone bring it."

"No," I said quickly. "I want to go myself."

"You're injured," he reminded me, nodding toward my bandaged arm.

"I'll go tomorrow then," I shrugged, turning to leave. "If I can even wait that long without going into cronut withdrawal."

Two hours later, I was curled up on the couch in the guest wing, half-asleep, when the front door opened. I heard footsteps—heavy, deliberate—and then Quentin appeared in the doorway.

His normally immaculate suit was rumpled, his hair damp from rain. He held a pink box in his hands.

"Your cronut," he said simply, extending it toward me.

I sat up, genuinely stunned. "You went yourself?"

He shrugged off his wet coat. "The line was shorter than expected."

I opened the box. Inside lay a single perfect cronut, glistening with raspberry glaze and sprinkled with gold leaf. I took a bite, watching him over the pastry.

"You taste it," I offered, holding it toward him.

He hesitated, then leaned forward and bit into the same spot I had. Our eyes locked as we shared the dessert, and something shifted in his gaze—something hungry that had nothing to do with food.

"The rain was worse than expected," he said gruffly, stepping back. "I should change."

But before he left, he added, "Next time, just tell me what you want."

---

Three weeks later, we were in the mountains for a business retreat. The crisp mountain air felt like freedom after weeks in the city.

"There's an ancient temple nearby," our guide mentioned during breakfast. "Legend says climbing the 999 steps grants a wish."

I'd been watching Quentin's face carefully. He was a man of science, of logic—the idea of wishing on temple steps would normally draw nothing but scorn from him.

"I'm going to bed early tonight," I said casually. "All this fresh air makes me tired."

He nodded absently, already returning to his tablet.

But at dawn, I woke to find his side of the bed empty. A strange premonition pulled me from beneath the covers and onto the balcony of our suite.

Far below, I could make out a figure moving steadily up the winding temple steps. Quentin—in running shoes and a simple t-shirt—climbing with determined focus.

I threw on clothes and followed, but by the time I reached the temple entrance, he was already far ahead. I watched from below as he climbed higher, his pace never faltering.

By the time I reached the summit, he was sitting on a bench, sweat glistening on his forehead. In his hand was a small wooden charm—a simple disc carved with intricate symbols.

"You're supposed to be resting," he said when he saw me.

"So are you," I replied.

He held out the charm. "For protection and health," he explained, his voice rough. "The monk said it's especially effective for injuries."

I took it, feeling its weight in my palm. "You climbed 999 steps for this?"

"I needed the exercise," he said dismissively, but his eyes betrayed him.

I tucked the charm into my pocket, close to my heart. "Thank you."

---

The European merger was supposed to be Quentin's crowning achievement—a hundred-million-dollar deal that would expand Hughes Enterprises into new markets.

I found him in his study the night before the signing, reviewing the final contracts.

"Section 17.3," I said quietly, pointing to a clause he'd overlooked. "If you sign this, you'll be indirectly funding that development project on 82nd Street."

His eyes narrowed. "What about it?"

"The one that would demolish St. Mary's Orphanage," I said softly. "Where I volunteer every Thursday."

Something flashed across his face—surprise, perhaps, that I had such connections.

"The clause is standard," he said finally. "The project will create jobs."

"But those children will lose their home," I countered.

He studied me for a long moment, then closed the contract. "I'll review it."

The next morning, I waited outside the boardroom, heart pounding. When Quentin emerged an hour later, his expression was grim.

"Well?" I asked.

"Deal's off," he said simply.

"What?"

He loosened his tie. "Ethical incompatibility. I don't care about the money if it upsets you."

I stared at him, struggling to process what had just happened. "You canceled a hundred-million-dollar deal because of me?"

"Don't flatter yourself," he said roughly, but his eyes softened when they met mine. "It was the right decision."

As he walked away, I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling the small wooden charm beneath my shirt.

Maybe, just maybe, this cold-hearted man was warming up to me after all.