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The best things never are.
Me:
Youheading to the meeting?
Her:
I have to. It starts in five minutes and I hear the big boss will be there. Real ogre vibes.
Me:
Can’t imagine who that would be.
There's a long pause before her next message.
Her:
You make it really hard to act normal.
Me:
Likewise.
I'm still smilingwhen I set the phone down. This goes against every rule I've built my life around. No distractions. No complications. No mixing business and personal. But right now? I don't care. For the first time in a long time, I'm letting myself want something just because it feels right. And I'm not going to talk myself out of it.
BENNETT
Icatch my reflection in my bathroom mirror and freeze. There’s a distinct mark just above my collar, purple-red against my skin. Evidence of Layla’s mouth from somewhere around 3 AM, when she decided to get revenge for the one I’d left on her.
Shit.
I adjust my tie higher, then lower, then higher again. Nothing works. The damn thing peeks no matter what I do. My phone buzzes with a text from Caleb.
Caleb:
In the conference room. Fair warning - Robert Carmichael showed up 20 minutes early and he looks ready to commit murder.
Me:
On my way.
The conference room is already three-quarters full when I enter. Vicky’s bent over financial projections withour team. Logan’s absorbed in his tablet, hair sticking up at angles that suggest he slept in the lab again.
And Robert Carmichael stands at the windows, hands clasped behind his back, radiating fury like a space heater set to ‘destroy.’
“Morning, everyone.”
The team responds with various greetings. Vicky glances up, does a double-take.
“You look… different today. Haircut?”
The door opens, saving me from needing to respond. Layla enters, and my pulse kicks into overdrive.
Black suit today. Hair in a sleek bun that makes me remember wrapping my fists in it. Professional. Composed. Absolutely nothing to indicate she was crying out my name four hours ago.
Except.
My eyes find the spot on her chest where I know there’s a matching mark, hidden under a blue buttoned to her neck. The memory of making it—her gasp, her nails in my shoulders, the way she arched against me—floods back with unfortunate clarity.