Old Flame, New Love

“Mr. Grant.” Lydia paused slightly. “Is there something you need?”

Miles Grant replied evenly, “Mr. Marks asked me to bring over his clothes. He wants you to deliver them.”

Lydia frowned. “You can’t give them to him yourself?”

“Mr. Marks’s instructions,” Miles said simply.

Monica Hayes chuckled beside Lydia, her tone edged with mockery. “Is Julian Marks out of his mind? If so, he should really get that checked out.”

Miles coughed lightly, pretending not to hear.

Lydia’s voice stayed calm. “Why don’t you deliver them, then? It’s… inconvenient for me to go.”

No one knew Julian Marks better than his assistant. Miles caught the implication in her words immediately, his expression awkward. “Since Mr. Marks made it clear, I’m afraid it has to be you.”

Lydia hesitated. “You mean he insisted?”

Miles nodded.

Lydia didn’t want to make things difficult for him. Over the past few years, whenever she couldn’t reach Julian, Miles had been the one helping her.

“Fine,” she said quietly, extending her hand. “I’ll take them. But I don’t know where he is. Did he tell you?”

Miles gave her a hotel name and room number before leaving.

Lydia checked the time, then turned to Monica. “You should probably head home first.”

Monica sighed. “You’re actually going to deliver them to him?”

Lydia smiled faintly. “Miles has helped me more than once. I’ll consider this returning the favor.”

Monica grabbed her purse. “All right, your call. But if you ever decide to divorce Julian Marks, call me first—I’ll get you a top-tier attorney.”

Lydia blinked. “…”

She stopped outside Room 1889 and pressed the doorbell.

After half a minute, the door finally opened.

Julian Marks stood there, hair still damp from a shower, his face glistening faintly with moisture. He was wearing the hotel’s white bathrobe, loosely tied at the waist, collar open just enough to reveal the defined lines of his chest.

“Your clothes,” Lydia said simply.

She had no intention of stepping inside. She held out the bag toward him.

Julian glanced at it, then reached out—not for the bag, but for her wrist, pulling her closer.

Caught off guard, Lydia stumbled forward, colliding with his chest. Her forehead brushed the corner of his mouth.

Before she could react, Julian bent his head, his voice a low murmur by her ear. “Did you enjoy the show?”

His breath was warm and damp against her skin, making her pulse quicken uncomfortably.

Lydia tilted her head away, meeting his gaze. “Could’ve been better.”

She tugged twice at her wrist. “Julian, you’re hurting me.”

Julian’s eyes flicked down to her slender wrist, caught so easily in his palm. It looked fragile—like something that could break with just a little pressure.

“I’m not even squeezing,” he said mildly, but made no move to release her. “You’re upset?”

“No,” Lydia replied curtly.

“Why not?” he asked, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Unless… you’re jealous?”

Lydia gave him a puzzled look. “Do you really think the word ‘jealous’ applies to you and me?”

Julian arched an eyebrow, his dark eyes narrowing. “Then who does it apply to? You and Adrian Cole?”

Lydia’s expression cooled. She tried to pull away. “Let go.”

Instead, Julian’s fingers tightened slightly, drawing her closer until their bodies nearly touched. His voice dropped to a lazy murmur. “Why won’t you answer me?”

“I’m not playing this game,” Lydia said flatly. “If that’s what you want to believe, then fine. Now—let go.”