The Nation's President Picked Me Up From Prison-Chapter 38: Elyn: One Step From Falling

"Yes, we’re not from the same year because he’s my senior. He was quite famous on campus back then, so almost everyone knew him."

Greg is still eating, but he’s chewing slower now.

"We participated in the same theater play as representatives for our batches. That’s when we got to know each other a bit. We didn’t keep in touch after that, though."

"You sound like you’re regretting not keeping in touch." His brow shoots up, his eyes full of accusation.

"Well, Dale is a nice guy, so I wouldn’t have minded keeping him as a friend."

Having kind friends, especially those who can help you sounds really nice.

"Just as a friend?" 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ𝓋𝑒𝑙.𝑐𝘰𝑚

I chuckle, and Greg’s eyes linger on my face in a strange way. I feel a bit flustered, so my cheeks must be a little red now.

"To be honest, I had a crush on him back then. Just a tiny bit."

My smile fades when I see Greg scowl like he’s tasted something bad. He stops eating and takes a sip of water.

"Did you taste a bitter part?" I ask, panicking.

He doesn’t say a word, just takes another sip of water and sets the glass back on the table. His gaze is sharp, almost brutal. My heartbeat thunders in my chest. He must have eaten something bad!

But when I checked earlier, I was sure the pie was cooked evenly.

He stands up and heads toward the stairs. "Where’s your bedroom?"

I swallow the piece of pie in my mouth so fast it almost gets stuck in my throat. I push it down with water and follow Greg.

"You want to take a look at my bedroom?" I don’t mind if he’s curious. "This is just a typical two-story apartment, and I didn’t get an interior designer when I bought it. The bedroom is pretty common too. Nothing as grand as yours in your mansion."

We’re halfway up the staircase when he suddenly turns. I’m a step below him, and the abrupt movement startles me enough that my foot slips back. If his hand hadn’t caught my wrist, I would’ve tumbled down the stairs!

I crash into his chest, his grip firm on my wrist, his other hand braced against my back. The shock is so sharp I can barely feel the stair beneath my feet.

Flustered and mortified, I try to pull away, but Greg doesn’t let me. His hold tightens just enough to keep me in place.

"Don’t move rashly, or you’ll fall."

The loud beating of my heart is deafening.

"Don’t move," he mutters above my head, his voice brushing my ear. Then his hand slips from my wrist to my hand.

He guides it to the banister, but his palm remains over mine, lingering even when I’m already holding the rail.

With barely an inch between us, I look up and find black pools of coal staring down at me. His eyes are dark, bottomless, almost too intense at such a close distance.

As he studies my face, something shifts in his expression. His lips part slightly, the faintest breath escaping. His eyes narrow, but not in irritation, it’s more like he’s focusing. Then his thumb flicks lightly against the back of my wrist, a small movement that feels far too intimate.

My chest burns, tightens, I don’t know. I can’t even name the sensation, only that it riots beneath my ribs in a way I’m not prepared for.

"Are you always this clumsy?" he asks, his tone annoyed but his expression... gentle.

The word surprises me.

Gregory Brandt is someone who’s hardly associated with gentleness, and yet I find myself describing him with that word. Isn’t that odd.

"If I weren’t quick enough to pull you, you would’ve fallen down the stairs and hit that little head of yours somewhere."

Now he’s scolding me like a child. He’s already much taller than me when we stand on the same level, and even more so now that I’m a step below him. It hurts my neck to look up at him, and yet I can’t seem to look away.

I guess it’s the face.

He has such a beautiful face, not in a feminine way, but in a distinctly masculine one. His dark eyes, like infinite darkness, only add to it. It’s almost terrifying to stare into them, because it feels... illegal. Forbidden.

I’m about to say something when his hand reaches for my face. My eyes widen, but I can’t move. His fingers settle on my chin, tilting it up slightly, and his thumb flicks softly beneath my lower lip.

The touch makes me tighten my hold on the banister.

"You’re a twenty-five-year-old adult, and yet you walk around with flour on your face," he says smoothly, his stare so intense it leaves a burning sensation in my throat which is spreading quickly down my chest.

I blink, my cheeks heating up. "I-I was cooking! I didn’t have time to make myself presentable because you arrived so soon..."

I know I could’ve come up with a better excuse, but my brain cells have clearly gone on vacation. How am I supposed to think straight when he’s this close?

"So it’s my fault, then?" he muses.

I part my lips to reply, but his thumb flicks once more, closer this time, and I shudder when it lightly brushes my bottom lip.

Heat blooms all over my body.

God, get a grip, Elyn!

A little physical contact and you’re already feeling that needy? There must be something seriously wrong with you.

I move to the side of the stair, leaning slightly on the banister, and wipe whatever flour remains on my face with my hand.

"Sorry about that." I smile nervously, trying to mask the anxiety clawing at my insides. "You want to see my bedroom, right? Let’s go."

His stare lingers for a moment before he turns away and continues up the stairs. I let out a sigh of relief and follow him, carefully this time.