Page 77 of For the Plot
“I’ve been focused.”
“Mm.” She sips again. “That what we’re calling it?”
I glance sideways at her. Her blouse looks soft, delicate, the curve of her breasts visible when she leans forward just slightly, shifting her weight to one foot. She knows I’m looking. She’s always known.
“I’m trying to keep this professional,” I say tightly.
“Adorable.” She laughs slightly, still not looking at me.
My jaw tenses.
She tilts her head then, finally glancing my way. “I’m not trying to be unprofessional, Reece.”
“That’s comforting.”
“But I do think it’s funny.”
“What?”
“The way you act like you haven’t been inside me.” She lifts her coffee to her lips again, her tone light. Casual. “You look at me like you want to devour me. And then you run.”
The elevator dings. I step out first, ignoring the burn in my throat and making sure I stay the hell away from her the rest of the day.
It’safter ten when I realize I’m the last one left in the building. Lights out down every hallway. Only the low hum of the HVACsystem and the occasional ding of the service elevator echoing in the dark.
I stayed late to catch up. That’s the excuse I gave myself. But I haven’t touched the paperwork on my desk in over an hour. I’ve just been sitting here, staring at the door.
And then it happens. She doesn’t knock. Just opens the door like it belongs to her. And maybe it does. Maybe everything in this goddamn office does now. My attention. My restraint. My fucking pulse.
She walks in like she’s been summoned by the very tension choking this room. Like she could smell my restraint slipping from down the hall and decided to come collect her reward.
Her heels click softly on the floor, deliberate, like she knows each step winds me tighter. The curve of her hips moves in rhythm with the ticking of the clock on the wall.
I don’t move. I sit there behind my desk, sleeves rolled up, top button undone, tie discarded on the leather armrest behind me. There’s a half-glass of scotch in my hand, a cigar on the edge of the tray I’d been planning to light. Until she walked in.
“Congrats.” Her voice is warm, syrup-slick. A little smug.
I glance up. “On what?”
She lifts a brow, walking closer. “Don’t play dumb. I manage your calendar, remember?”
Christ, even her snarky attitude gets me going.
She’s wearing that silk blouse again—the cream one with the deep neckline that dips just enough to expose the slope of her collarbone. Her skin gleams under the low light of my desk lamp, and there’s a soft flush on her throat, like she’s been thinking about this. About me.
Her hair’s down. Her lipstick is that reckless shade of red.
“What are you doing here? I thought you’d gone.” I sit up straighter.
“No, I was just in conference room B.” She holds a tablet in one hand and a bottle of water in the other like this is just another late-night check-in.
“I thought you might still be here,” she says, voice calm. “I needed your notes on the venture deck for Monday.”
“You couldn’t wait until morning?”
She shrugs. “I could’ve. But I had a feeling you wouldn’t sleep either way.”
I push up from my chair, walking behind my desk. “I don’t know what game you think you’re playing?—”
