Page 45 of For the Plot
He lifts his coffee again, unfazed. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
We stare at each other, something coiled and electric tightening between us.
“You really think I havedaddy issues?” I ask, trying to sound unaffected, like the air between us isn’t crackling. He steps even closer. His steps measured like he’s reeling me in without touching me.
His voice is quiet, lethal. “I think you’re a very smart woman with very dangerous instincts.”
I swallow. Hard. “Dangerous how?”
“Because you keep pushing me. And I’m not sure you realize what’ll happen when I stop resisting.”
I don’t move. He leans in, just a little farther, until I can feel the heat of him against my front, until my back is pressed against the counter and his hand lands next to mine—close but not touching. Caging me in place with nothing but his presence.
“You think this is a game, Skye. You flirt. You test. You joke about wanting to be ruined.”
My heart is hammering in my chest. “And?”
His eyes are on my mouth now. “And I’m not sure you know what that really means.”
I raise my chin, breath shaky. “You think I couldn’t handle you?”
“I think,” he says, his voice suddenly hoarse, “you don’t understand what it would feel like to have a man like me come completely undone for a woman like you.”
Oh. Fuck.
The air disappears. I grip the counter behind me, every nerve ending burning. “And yet,” I whisper, “you haven’t walked away.”
He leans even closer, lips brushing the edge of my cheekbone. His voice curls over my skin. “You should eat something, Miss Rhodes.”
I shudder. “Why?”
“Because if I keep standing this close to you, I’m going to stop caring who sees.” Then he steps back, just like that, and walks away, his coffee in hand, his control miraculously intact.
Mine? Shattered.
I stare at his retreating back like it might turn around and devour me. Broad shoulders. Strong hands. A man made of restraint. A man who saysI’d ruin youlike he’s daring me to saytry.
I’m not okay. I’m drowning in something I’m not sure I’ll survive. And worst of all? I don’t want it to stop.
I stare at the pastries for a full thirty seconds before tearing off a piece of croissant and chewing it like it personally offended me. My hands are shaking. My mouth is dry. My heart is somewhere near my toes.
He heard me. He quoted me. And then he said—God,whatdid he say? He said I look at him like I want him to ruin me.
Which, okay. Accurate. I need air.
I walk back to my desk and shut my laptop a little too hard, grab my phone, and make my way toward the executive terrace. I know it’s technically off-limits, but I also know the code scribbled on the back of the Wi-Fi card tucked in my desk drawer. Occupational hazard of being nosy and emotionally unstable.
The air is crisp. Clean. The wind whips through my hair like it’s trying to pull me back into reality. I lean against the wall and close my eyes.
Just breathe. Just be. Just exist for five goddamn minutes without making it about him.
“You know this terrace is technically off-limits.”
I don’t turn. I don’t even flinch. His voice is already embedded in my bloodstream. “What now, Mr. Blackwood? Come out here to fire me this time?”
“Came out for some air onmyprivate executive terrace. What areyoudoing here?”
