Hearing her words, Julian's grip on the steering wheel tightened. Something pricked at his heart. "Shalma, when exactly are you going to change how you address me? Or are you planning to call me Mr. Winslow for the rest of your life?"
He recalled the time she had gotten drunk and intimately called him "Julian." No one had ever called him that before.
"Of course not. In thirty years, I'll have to switch to calling you Chairman Winslow," Shalma teased deliberately, speaking of trivial things. Yet, she knew the walls around her heart were crumbling—and at a rapid pace.
The heater in the car was on full blast, making her feel a bit too warm. She couldn't tell if it was the heating or the restlessness in her heart.
Suddenly, her hand was clasped. She glanced at the large hand holding hers—slender, long, and with distinct knuckles.
She fixed her gaze on him, only to see a deep smile playing at the corners of his lips. Surprised, she asked, "What are you smiling so happily about?"
