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“Dinner later? I still have that wine.”
She gives me a tired smile. “Dinner sounds perfect.”
As she leaves, I'm already planning how to make tonight exactly what she needs. Good food, better wine, and absolutely no talk of fathers or acquisitions. Just us, figuring out this new territory we've claimed.
For the first time in my career, I can't wait for the workday to end.
LAYLA
Three days since Dad called me a whore in front of fourteen people. Three days since Bennett's jaw went granite-hard in my defense. Eleven unread texts from Dad blink on my phone like a guilty morse code:
Sorry.
Sorry.
Please talk to me.
Sorry.
I shove the phone deeper into Bennett's couch cushions and refocus on the lab results glowing on my laptop screen. Bennett's bare feet tangle with mine, his free hand resting possessively on my ankle while he reviews quarterly projections.
“Still hiding from your father?” he asks, thumb tracing lazy circleson my skin.
“He's the one who should be hiding,” I correct. “But I'm the one ignoring his texts, so I guess we're even.”
“You'll talk to him when you're ready.” His hand slides higher, fingers skimming my calf with practiced ease. “There's no timeline for forgiving someone who hurt you like that.”
“What happened after I left?” I've been dying to ask. “Did you say anything to him?”
Bennett's hand stills. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you had that look. The one you get before you destroy someone in negotiations.”
He's quiet for a moment. “I may have made my position clear.”
“Which was?”
“That speaking to you that way—publicly or privately—would have consequences.” His fingers resume their path up my leg. “And that what we have is real.”
“You told my father that?”
The words feel heavier once I say them aloud. It’s one thing to sleep with someone. Another entirely to be defended like this. Out loud. In a boardroom.
“Someone needed to.” His voice carries an edge. “Since he seemed to have forgotten you're a brilliant executive, not some opportunist trading favors.”
The weight of what he did hits me. “Bennett...”
He sets his laptop aside and tugs me toward him until I'm sprawled across his lap. “The whole office knows now. Apparently there's a betting pool.”
“Multiple pools,” I correct, needing to lighten the moment before I do something embarrassing like cry. “Jenna showed me her spreadsheet. Very thorough.”
“My assistant is taking bets on our relationship?”
“Your assistant is monitoring the multiple betting pools to make sure it's done 'correctly'.” I trace patterns on his chest through his t-shirt. “Currently, the smart money's on us lasting three months.”
“Only three?” His hands slide under the shirt I stole from him, warm against bare skin.
“Your defense of me shifted the odds, apparently.”