Page 37 of For the Plot
Sir.
It’s not the first time she’s said it, but this time it feels different. Like she’s daring me to flinch. Like she knows damn well what it does to me. But if she does, she doesn’t let it show. She leaves without another word, the click of her heels a taunt echoing down the hallway.
I close the folder and press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
This. Cannot.Happen.
She’s my employee. Temporarily, yes. But still under my supervision. Under my roof, professionally speaking. And I know better. I’ve spent my entire career keeping lines clean, relationships compartmentalized, emotions under control.
It’s what kept the company alive after my late wife Lauren died. It’s what kept Archer from completely unraveling. It’s what kept me sane through the aftermath of selling Blackwood Technologies and becoming everyone’s favorite reluctant billionaire with a sob story.
Control is my currency. And she’s blowing through it like a fucking wildfire.
I don’t know what’s worse, the lust or the longing. Because it isn’t just how she looks or how she moves. It’s the way shelistens, really listens. The way she remembers names, cracks jokes that actually make people laugh, slips between sarcasm and sincerity with terrifying ease.
She’s magnetic. And I’m already too close.
I glance at the clock. It’s not even noon. I stand and walk out of my office, ignoring the looks from staff as I head for the kitchen. I need caffeine, cold air, and some serious fucking distance. But then I round the corner and see her there, already pouring a second cup.
She turns, startled, and smiles. “You stalking me now?”
Jesus.
I arch a brow, keeping my voice even. “You’re in my kitchen.”
She shrugs, unfazed. “Guess I’ve been promoted.”
I open the fridge just to give my hands something to do. “Cream?”
“Almond milk. Top shelf.”
Of course she knows where it is. Of course she’s made herself comfortable. I grab the carton and set it down a little too hard on the counter.
She cocks her head. “You okay?”
I glance at her. She’s watching me, eyes wide with carefully arranged innocence. She’s not innocent. Not by a long shot. But she’s also not playing games; I’m just reading into things because I’m clearly fucked in the head.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
She sips her coffee, watching me over the rim. “If I’m doing something wrong, you can tell me.”
The directness punches a hole through my chest.
“You’re not,” I say after a beat.
She leans her hip against the counter. “Then why do you look like you’re one breath away from firing me every time I walk into your office?”
Because I want to bend you over it and sink so deep inside of you, you scream. Because I can’t sleep without dreaming about you. Because you are the one thing I can’t allow myself to want.
Instead, I say, “I’m not used to this dynamic.”
She blinks. “What dynamic?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to… I don’t think.
She sets her cup down gently, expression softening. “I can be professional, Reece.” Her voice is quiet now. “I’m not here to make your life harder. I just felt like we already kind of knew each other so things were… friendly.”
I hold her gaze, and for a moment, the whole world narrows to the space between us. I want to call her on the term “friendly.” I want to tell her that’s not at all what she’s doing and she knows it, but I’m still not sure she does. Maybe this is just Skye, flirty and tempting and?—
