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Something shifts in his expression. For the next two hours, we dive deep into strategy, dissecting market opportunities with an intensity that feels like foreplay. Every challenge I throw, he catches and returns with interest.Our ideas build on each other, creating something bigger than either could alone.
Halfway through, when I lean forward to point out a crucial market projection, his eyes drop to my mouth. Just for a second. The air thickens between us.
“The Asian markets,” I push through, voice only slightly breathless, “could triple our initial projections.”
“Show me.” His voice is rougher than it was five minutes ago.
And I do, somehow maintaining my train of thought even though he's looking at me like he wants to devour me along with the data.
By the time we surface, the sun has shifted, painting his office in shades of gold.
“I should go.” I gather my materials reluctantly.
“Thank you.” He stands when I do, old-fashioned manners that make my heart skip. “This was... illuminating.”
At the door, I turn back. “Why did you really accept Dad's ultimatum? You could've fought it. Gotten rid of me right away. I know you wanted to.”
“You know the company.” His tone is carefully neutral. “Continuity matters.”
“That's not the only reason.”
His eyes darken. “Maybe I wanted to see what would happen.”
“With NeuraTech?”
“Among other things.”
The air between us crackles. I grip the door handle harder.
“Right. The prototype.” My smile feels brittle. “That's what this is about.”
“Obviously.”
“Good day, Mr. Mercer.”
I turn to leave, but his voice stops me.
“Layla.”
I pause, not trusting myself to turn around.
“The green dress.” His voice drops an octave, and my heart kicks up.
“What about it?”
He lets it hang, like a challenge, and I feel every inch of skin that dress had once covered now burning under the memory of his gaze. I almost drop my folder. Instead, I clutch the edge of the door, knuckles white.
“What about it, Mr. Mercer?”
He’s silent just long enough to make me wonder if I imagined the whole damn thing. Did I? I turn to face him and he’s staring openly, something raw storming behind his eyes.
He opens his mouth, closes it. A microscopic shake of his head, like he’s saying to himself, ‘No, don’t say it, don’t you dare, control yourself.’But then he lets out his breath and the words pass his lips anyway.
“It looked good on you.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or combust. “That’s very… professional feedback.”
He doesn’t smile or even seem to breathe, but I swear his pupils dilate. “See you tomorrow, Ms. Carmichael.” The way he says it is a promise I shouldn't want him to keep. But I do.