Page 9 of For the Plot
I shake my head, lips twitching despite the fact that this suddenly feels laden with innuendo. "Still quick with the comebacks."
"Still avoiding my feelings with humor. Some things never change."
There's a moment of silence between us, then she exhales and glances down into her glass. "Sorry. I think I've had too much. I'm talking too much. I should probably shut up."
"You're fine," I say. And I mean that too.
She lifts her eyes to mine. "It's really good to see you again, Reece."
The way she says my name knocks something loose, but I shove it down.
She shifts in her seat and crosses her legs, and my gaze falls for just a second too long. The leggings are plain black, nothing remarkable—but the way they hug her thighs is unmistakable. The kind of thing any man with working eyes would notice. But I'm not just any man and I sure as shit shouldn’t be noticing anything about her. I drag my eyes back to her face, my jaw tightening.
Jesus. What the hell am I doing?
This is Skye. My son's ex-girlfriend. A girl I last saw in high school hallways and family photos. It doesn't matter that she's not a girl anymore. It doesn't matter that we're in a bar and she walked over to me. I know better than to entertain whatever stray thought just flickered through my head.
I reach for my drink, sip slow, and keep my voice level.
"You too," I say quietly.
And I hold her gaze. Just long enough to feel the shift. Just short enough not to make it obvious. Even though I know I shouldn't.
She clears her throat softly, fingers toying with her glass. "Well… I should probably get back to Maya before she starts a search party. Or decides to come over here and embarrass me in front of the guy she swears is givingalpha billionaire in hidingenergy."
I huff a quiet laugh. "Well, we wouldn't want that now, would we?"
She stands slowly, the moment stretching between us, a thin thread of something I don't have the right to name.
"It was good seeing you, Reece," she says again, more tentative this time.
"You too, Skye."
I watch her retreat to her table, where her friend immediately leans in, whispering something that makes Skye roll her eyes and laugh. I turn back to my drink, the last swallow of bourbon untouched, warming in my palm.
I sit for another few minutes, listening to the soft clink of ice, the muted rumble of conversation. I tell myself to get up. To let it go. But my hand drifts to the inside pocket of my blazer anyway.
I pull out a business card. Matte black. Clean gold lettering.
I shouldn't. She's my son's ex. This is wildly inappropriate. She's vulnerable. On edge. Probably still reeling. But I need a temp.
My assistant Leann goes on maternity leave any minute, and I’ve done shit to go through the stack of résumés on my desk. Skye's sharp. Quick. She was always smart. And she's not a stranger, not really.
I don't let myself overthink it. I down the last of my drink, slide a tip beneath the glass, and push to my feet.
She sees me approaching before I speak. Her eyes widen slightly, lips parting like she doesn't know what I could possibly have left to say.
“Sorry to interrupt, ladies.” I nod toward Skye. “But you want to hear something funny?”
“Sure,” she says, eyes curiously wide.
“My assistant is about to head out on maternity leave for the next four months or so and I figured I might as well take the opportunity.” I hand her the card. Her fingers brush mine, and we both hesitate. Just a second. Just long enough to notice.
"I've been interviewing temps to cover while she's out. No one's been the right fit," I lie, keeping my voice even and professional.
She glances down at the card, then back at me. “You’re a billionaire and your assistant only gets four months off for maternity leave?”
“Skye.” Maya elbows her but she doesn’t seem fazed.
