Page 29 of Babies for the Big Shot
His tie hangs undone, a casualty of the night.
He leans in, forehead pressed to mine. Still too close. Still not close enough.
“We shouldn’t,” he whispers, voice rough as gravel.
“I know,” I breathe.
But neither of us moves.
Not an inch.
We stay there, suspended in the aftershock, trembling with everything we just unleashed, and everything we still haven’t.
If we move, the whole room might ignite.
Maybe that’s what we want.
A sudden clatter jerks us apart, guilty teenagers caught in the act.
Footsteps.
I freeze, breath snagged in my throat, heart pounding. Nick’s hand tightens into a fist at his side.
Then, from around the corner appears the office cleaner, a short woman in a bright pink hoodie, completely oblivious to the sexual meltdown that nearly happened in this room. She’s wearing huge noise-canceling headphones, singing loudly and off-key to Lizzo as she pushes her cart past the doorway without even glancing inside.
“Feelin’ good as hell…” she wails, spinning her duster, baton style.
Nick and I stare after her, wide-eyed and silent.
“Shit,” I whisper.
He lets out a low breath. “We need to go. Now.”
“Yeah. Before we ruin both our lives.”
We practically trip over each other to reach the door, the awkward tension thick and suffocating as we escape the scene of the crime.
My heels click too loud on the polished floor. His hand brushes the small of my back, steadying me, or maybe steadying himself, and that stupid electric zing shoots straight through me all over again.
Get it together, Sara.
I suck in a quick breath, forcing oxygen into my overloaded brain.
This is the best job I’ve ever had.
The first job that made me feel I could actually do something. Be someone. Make a real mark instead of fetching coffee or fixing someone else’s broken pitch deck.
I am not going to throw it away just because my boss smells of smoky cedar and cold leather, and kisses me with the dark heat of sin itself.
Nope. Not happening. I need to keep my head. My distance. My sanity.
I need to forget the burn of his mouth on mine, the low drop of his voice when he said my name, the weight of his body pressing me against the door as if he’d been starving for it.
I need to remember what’s actually at stake here.
A career I busted my ass to build. A paycheck that finally lets me afford my own apartment. Stability. Respect.
Damn.
