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This can't continue indefinitely. The text relationship, the charged in-person interactions, the constant dance between professional and personal. Something has to give eventually.
My phone buzzes as we turn onto my street.
You looked beautiful tonight. Just so you know.
I stare at Roman's text, heart racing. This is definitely crossing a line. We both know it.
Before I can decide how to respond, another message appears:
Too far?
I can almost see his expression as he sent that—the slight uncertainty beneath the confident exterior. It makes him seem more human, more accessible.
Not too far, I reply. Just far enough to make tomorrow's budget meeting interesting.
Looking forward to it. Sweet dreams, Cassie.
The car pulls up outside my building, the driver appearing to open my door with the same deference he showed Roman. I thank him and hurry inside, my mind spinning with the implications of tonight's subtle shift in our dynamic.
The next morningbrings a reality check in the form of an emergency production meeting. The factory in Milan has issues with the new sustainable leather we're sourcing for the upcoming collection.
By the time I've handled the crisis, responded to seventeen urgent emails, and prepped for the budget meeting, I've almost managed to convince myself that last night's dinner was purely professional.
Almost.
Until I step into the elevator at 9:55, rushing to make the 10 AM budget meeting, and find myself alone with the one person I've been simultaneously avoiding and hoping to see all morning.
"Ms. Monroe," Roman says formally as the doors close, though his eyes hold a warmth that makes my stomach flip. "Running late?"
"Production emergency," I explain, pressing the button for the 38th floor even though it's already lit. "Milan is having issues with the new leather supplier."
"Anything I should be concerned about?" His tone is purely professional now.
"No, it's handled. Just a minor setback."
We lapse into silence as the elevator ascends. Ten floors. Fifteen. Why is this elevator so slow? And why does the enclosed space make Roman's cologne seem more potent, more distracting?
"I enjoyed dinner last night," Roman says suddenly, his voice lower than before.
"So did I," I admit, staring straight ahead at the illuminated floor numbers. "The food was excellent."
"The company was better."
I glance at him, finding his gaze already on me, intense and unreadable. "Mr. Kade?—"
"We're alone, Cassie." His voice wraps around my name like a caress.
"That's probably not a good thing," I say, trying for lightness but hearing the breathlessness in my own voice.
"Probably not," he agrees, making no move to create more distance between us.
The elevator jolts, causing me to stumble. Roman's hand shoots out to steady me, gripping my elbow.
The contact, even through clothing, sends electricity racing through my veins.
"Careful," he murmurs, not releasing my arm though I've regained my balance.
Time slows as we stand there, his hand on my arm, barely a foot between us.