August folded his arms, leaning against the counter as he looked at Celine. "So… what's the plan now?"
Before Celine could respond, Stacy chimed in, setting her now-empty coffee cup down with purpose.
"First of all, you're not going back to that house. Would've said come crash at mine, but you know my apartment's basically a glorified shoebox."
She cut a glance toward August, eyes narrowing playfully. "Chef here seems… nice."
Celine gave her a warning look. "Stace—"
Stacy ignored her. "Don't even start. You literally ran for your life last night. An intruder showed up in your house. Girl, a hotel is no longer safe. You need somewhere solid. Somewhere they wouldn't think to look first."
August straightened. "I agree with Stacy."
Celine blinked, caught between protest and exhaustion. "I won't want to intrude."
"You won't," August said simply. "There's space. And you need time to figure out your next step without someone watching you through a camera lens or kicking your door in."
Stacy gave a little victorious nod. "See? Chef and a gentleman."
Celine let out a soft sigh, torn. But deep down, she knew they were right. And she was too tired to argue anymore.
Celine looked down at her hands, fingers lightly rubbing the side of her coffee cup. Her voice was quieter this time. "Just a few days. I'll find something else by the weekend."
August gave a small shrug, "Take the time you need. My guest room's barely used anyway."
Stacy grinned like she'd just won a prize. "You hear that? You've got sanctuary… and food." She leaned back with a smug stretch. "Honestly, I might start dating chefs."
Celine rolled her eyes. "You date waiters."
"I date potential," Stacy shot back with a wink.
August chuckled, but his gaze was still on Celine. "If you remember anything else about last night… anything at all, let me know. I'll help however I can."
She met his eyes for a moment, steady, kind, not pushing. Her throat tightened, and for the first time in a long while, she felt something close to safe.
"Thank you," she said softly.
"You're welcome," he replied, then nodded toward the hallway. "Guest room's that way if you want to rest. And feel free to go through the fridge, just… don't insult my soup ratios."
Stacy laughed. "See? He's growing on you already."
Celine smirked faintly, but didn't argue. Maybe, for now, she didn't have to.
As Stacy grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder, she called out, "I'll bring your laptop, sketches, and files later. Don't think this gets you out of work, Miss CEO."
"I'd be worried if you didn't," Celine muttered with a tired smile.
Once the door closed behind her, silence settled again between her and August. He leaned back against the kitchen counter, arms folded casually, watching her with quiet curiosity.
"So," he said, breaking the silence. "What do you do, exactly? Besides surviving break-ins and taking shots like a champion."
Celine huffed a breath of amusement. "I design."
"Design?" he echoed. "Like interiors or…?"
She shook her head. "Fashion. I own a luxury fashion house, House of Celine."
His brow lifted slightly. "Wait… House of Celine? As in that Celine?"
"Guilty," she said, crossing one leg over the other. "We specialize in high fashion, couture, ready-to-wear collections, private clients. I built it from scratch, every stitch, every fabric choice… it's all me."
He let out a low whistle. "Impressive."
"I live in sketches and fabric swatches. My team handles execution now, but I still design every lead collection. I guess…" she shrugged. "It's how I stay sane. Clothes make sense. People don't."
August gave her a look, somewhere between admiration and understanding. "Well, if your clothes are anything like that silk thing you wore the night we met? Yeah, they make a lot of sense."
Celine rolled her eyes. "Careful, chef. You're starting to flirt."
He smirked. "You started it. You ordered all those shots."
She lifted her mug, "Touché."
August chuckled, stepping forward to top off her coffee. "You've got bite. I like that."
Celine leaned back against the couch, mug warm between her palms. "People usually prefer me quiet and well-behaved."
"People sound boring," he said simply, settling into the armchair across from her.
They sat in a comfortable lull, the soft hum of the city leaking in through the windows. Morning sun was beginning to push through the clouds, casting gentle shadows across the room.
August tapped his fingers against the side of his cup. "So… what's next, Celine? You've got someone trying to force your hand, and I don't think that guy's going to back off anytime soon."
Celine didn't answer right away. Her thumb traced the rim of her mug as her mind spun.
"I don't know," she admitted finally, voice low. "Part of me wants to vanish. Let the lawyers deal with it. The other part wants to burn everything he touches."
August nodded slowly. "Both sound reasonable."
She gave him a sideways glance, then smiled faintly. "You're easy to talk to."
He grinned. "I'm a chef. We don't just cook. We listen."
Celine let her head fall back onto the couch cushion. "I've been going non-stop for months. Between the Chanel deal, Nolan's bullshit, my family—"
"—and getting nearly assaulted in your own apartment," he added, more serious now.
She went quiet again.
August sat forward slightly, his tone gentler. "You're welcome to stay here, you know. For a while. I've got space, and Liam's with his grandparents most weekends. It's safe here."
She looked at him carefully. "Why are you being so kind?"
He shrugged. "Maybe I like dangerous redheads who can out-drink me."
That earned a soft laugh from her.
"Besides," he added with a smirk, "you never paid your tab."
Celine rolled her eyes, but for the first time in days, her smile reached her eyes.
***
Two small fingers jabbed at her nose.
Celine stirred with a groggy grunt, eyes fluttering open.
Another prod.
"Why are you here?" a small voice asked, sharp and unimpressed.
Blinking, she sat up slowly, her gaze locking onto a little boy standing before her, no older than three or four. Backpack slung on one shoulder, curly hair tousled by the breeze from the open window. He stared at her like she was a bug in his cereal.
Then it clicked.
The eyes. The jawline. This had to be August's son.
"You…" he narrowed his gaze. "You're the lady who fell me down."
Celine blinked again, trying to gather her thoughts. "I—I didn't fall you exactly—"
"You did," he said flatly, arms folded. "I remember."
Great. She was already making a stellar impression.
"I didn't think you were real," he added. "Dad said you were a grown-up."
"I am a grown-up," Celine muttered, sitting up straighter, brushing her tangled hair from her face.
He rolled his eyes. "Grown-ups don't sleep on other people's couches."
She opened her mouth to respond but shut it quickly.
Point taken.
Before she could attempt redemption, the front door clicked open, and August's voice echoed faintly, carrying a bag of groceries.
"Liam, did you go in without—?"
He paused when he saw her awake, and Liam standing in front of her with the most judgmental look on his face.
August raised a brow. "I see you've met."
"Yup," Liam muttered. "She's the fall lady."
Celine straightened, smoothing her hair. "No, I'm not the fall lady. It was a… a slip. And you happened to be in the way."
Liam stared, then shrugged. "Still fell."
August chuckled, not taking side.
Celine shot him a glare. "You're enjoying this."
"A little," he said, setting the bag down. "He's got your sass already."
"I don't have sass," she muttered.
Liam plopped down on the couch beside her, clearly unfazed. "Dad, is she staying here?"
Celine froze. August glanced at her before answering, "Just for a little while."
Liam looked her over again. "Do you cook?"
"No," she replied honestly.
He huffed. "Figures." Then turned his attention to the bag. "Did you get juice?"
Celine sank back into the couch with a sigh. This kid…