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“Why is it a problem?”
“Because I'm supposed to be focused on the acquisition. Not on how you take your coffee or the way you tap your pen when you're thinking.”
“How do I take my coffee?”
“One sugar, splash of cream. Unless you’re tired, then it's two sugars.”
“OK, that's actually disturbing.”
His laugh is rich, warming me from the inside. “I can't help it. You're... distracting.”
“I'm distracting? You're the one who shows up to meetings looking like you stepped out of a magazine.”
“You think I look good?”
“You know you look good.”
“I know you think I do,” he corrects. “That's different. Better.”
We're quiet for a moment. I hear ice clink. He's drinking too.
“Scotch?” I guess.
“Bourbon tonight.”
“Rough day?”
“Getting better.” His voice drops. “Tell me about yours. Before dinner.”
“You want to hear about my thrilling afternoon of spreadsheets?”
“I want to hear your voice,” he says simply. “Tell me anything.”
So I do. I tell him about the morning meeting where Audrey accidentally called someone the wrong name for an hour. About my assistant's ongoing war with the printer. About the little victories and frustrations that make up a day I'd normally forget.
He listens. Laughs in the right places. Asks questions that show he's paying attention.
“Your turn,” I say eventually. “Tell me something about your day I wouldn't know from meetings.”
There's a long pause. “I split my lunch break between reading the Tokyo merger documents and listening to Caleb tell me why he thinks I’m emotionally stunted.”
“Is he wrong?”
Another pause. “Maybe not always. But in this case, I think he misunderstands the situation.”
“And what situation is that?”
“You,” Bennett says, quietly. Like he's admitting to something shameful and thrilling at once. “You're the exception to almost every rule I've made for myself.”
My mouth goes dry. I'm not sure what to say to that, so I let the silence stretch, picking at the label on my wine bottle.
“Layla?”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t control myself around you anymore.”
The words hit like lightning. I can't breathe.