Just A Taste

The glass elevator soared up the side of the skyscraper, the city lights twinkling like a sea of fireflies below. John Cross stood tall but relaxed with his hands clasped behind his back, his broad shoulders filling out the tailored navy suit like it was molded to him. Leader. Visionary. The words weren’t just titles; they were his reality. His strong jawline, lightly dusted with stubble from working one too many long nights, was set in a determined sharp line as he stared out at the horizon. He didn’t just own this building; he owned much of the skyline within view. And soon, though not soon enough to suit his own impatience, he’d own everything else he’d set his sights on.

The doors slid open with a soft chime, and he stepped onto the crisp marble penthouse floor. The space was a testament to his success — sleek, modern, and uncompromising. A mahogany desk sat in the center, flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows from which he could admire his many acquisitions. He walked over, his polished Oxfords tapping firmly against the marble floor with each stride, and picked up a file labeled “Willowbrook Farm” from the desk.

John’s lips curved into a slightly crooked smirk. Small potatoes, he thought. But something about this one had been taking up a bit too much of his attention. Maybe it was the tenacity of the farm’s owners, who’d refused every offer his company had made. Or maybe, he mused, circling the desk, it’s just the thrill of the chase. A little resistance can make even a basic acquisition all the more enticing every now and then. He tossed the file back onto the desk and poured himself a glass of scotch, the amber liquid catching the light.

The intercom on his desk buzzed. “Mr. Cross,” his assistant’s voice came through, crisp and efficient, “there’s a visitor here for you. A Miss Clare Thompson.”

John’s eyebrow quirked. Thompson. He recognized the name immediately. The farm. The stubborn family who’d been insistently holding out was also named Thompson. Interesting, he thought, swirling the scotch in his glass. “Send her up,” he said, his voice low and commanding.

Clare stepped into the elevator, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. She'd never been to the city and it was all so overwhelming — too much noise, too many people, too much everything. She clutched her worn leather satchel to her side, her fingers trembling slightly. She hated feeling out of place, but here and now, in this glittering tower that seemed to thrust itself into the sky, she had never felt more like a fish out of water. Like she didn't belong.

The doors opened, and she stepped into the penthouse. Her breath caught in her throat. The space was…intimidating. All clean lines and sharp edges, almost harsh, much like the man who stood in the center of it. John Cross was even more striking in person than he was in the photos she’d seen online. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his eyes a piercing gunmetal gray that seemed to see right through her. He was tall, and broad-shouldered with biceps that made his suit seem almost painted on, exuding a confidence that made her feel even smaller than she had just moments before.

“Miss Thompson,” he said, his voice smooth and deep, like velvet. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Clare swallowed hard, forcing herself to stand a little taller. “Mr. Cross,” she began, her voice steady despite the butterflies in her stomach. “I’m here to talk to you about Willowbrook Farm.”

John’s lips curved into a faint knowing smile as he gestured toward the sofa. “Please, sit.”

She hesitated for a moment before moving to the sofa. A brief moment to make sure her legs were still attached, they felt like jelly. John took the seat directly across from her, leaning back with an air of casual dominance. He crossed one leg over the other, his gaze never leaving hers. “Your family’s farm,” he said, his tone conversational. “It’s a beautiful piece of land. Prime real estate.”

Clare’s jaw tightened. “It’s not just real estate to us. It’s our home. It’s been in our family for generations.”

John tilted his head, studying her. “Sentimentality doesn’t pay the bills, Miss Thompson. My company’s offer is more than generous.”

“We’re not interested in selling,” Clare said firmly, her green eyes blazing with determination. “I came here to ask you to have your company stop harassing us and to leave us alone.”

John chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down her spine. “You came all this way just to ask me that?”

She nodded, her fingers tightening around the weathered strap of her satchel. “I’ll do whatever it takes to save our farm.”

John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze was intense, almost predatory. “Whatever it takes?” he repeated, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “That’s a dangerous thing to say, Clare. May I call you Clare?”

She hesitated, then nodded again. “Yes.”

“Clare,” he said, her name rolling off his tongue like a caress. “You’re a brave woman. I admire that. But you’re playing a game you can't possibly understand.”

Her cheeks flushed as he stared intently at her, but she held his gaze. “I’m not playing a game, Mr. Cross. I’m fighting for what’s mine.”

John’s smile returned, but there was something darker in it now. Something that made her pulse quicken. “Then fight,” he said, his voice low and challenging. “But know this — I don’t lose.”

The air between them crackled with tension, thick and electric. Clare felt a strange mix of fear and something else — something she couldn’t quite name - something she'd never experienced before. John stood, his imposing presence filling the entire room. “Let me show you something,” he said, extending his hand.

She stared at it for a moment, then timidly placed her hand in his. His skin was warm, his grip firm but not overpowering. He led her directly to those magnificent floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawling out before them. “This,” he said, his voice soft but commanding, “is my world. And I’ll do whatever it takes to protect what's mine.”

Clare looked up at him, her heart racing. “And my farm is part of your world now?”

John turned to face her, his eyes burning with intensity. “It doesn’t have to be,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Perhaps we can find another way.”

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