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She must see something on my face because she pauses as she shuts the door and adds, “Nothing to worry about, Ms. Theriot. The same proposal you provided us is sure to wow him as well.” She beams, her face lighting up.

That was a written proposal—a written proposal.

“Thank you, Mrs. Morales,” Margerie says, while I stand just in front of her in a position a Valkyrie would take in front of her army ... except I feel like a lamb next up at the slaughter.

Mrs. Morales gives Margerie a warm smile and a nod and gives me a confused look that I’m a little used to. Is she okay? No. No, I’m not okay. I’m about to have explosive diarrh—

“He’s here!” Jeremy speaks in an even higher pitch than Dan had.

“False alarm, Jer,” Dan says, pushing Jeremy away from the door so he can pull it open for the COE president, Mr. Singkham, or ... wait, should I call him Kun Prasit? Mrs. Morales referred to him as Kun Prasit in several emails. I looked it up—it’s an honorific in Thailand—but as an American who hasn’t had much chance to travel and doesn’t have a whole lot of Thai friends ( try friends, full stop ), I’m not sure how to address him in person. Holy moly. I’m going to botch the first words I ever say to him in person.

There’s no time to debate it with the team. There’s no way to grab Margerie and thrust her in front of me either. Because, to my horror, he’s there in the flesh, his dark hair elegantly arrayed, his finely tailored suit making me feel like I’m meeting the president of a country, not the president of a coalition, an intragovernmental agency with all the power of the world’s top leading economies and ten times the revenue of the NFL.

He enters the room, and his eyes settle immediately on me. “Ms. Theriot,” he says, his French pronunciation of my name making me realize that not only do I not have a title for him, I don’t even know how to pronounce his title—either version. “It’s a pleasure to have you here. Thank you so much for waiting. It would seem that our guest has finally decided to grace us with his presence.” He gives a light, warm chuckle and a little shake of his head and I stare at him, petrified enough to keep from collecting all the packets, tossing them up into the air, and running out of the room screaming.

“And this is your team,” Mr. Singkham prompts when I say nothing, gesturing to my staff. I nod. His smile starts to waver.

My jaw starts to work, and when I still come up with nothing, Margerie smoothly intervenes. “Mr. Singkham, I’m Margerie Gates. Thank you so much for accepting our bid. Our team has the utmost confidence we’ll be able to build a brand the Pyro—and your team—will be proud to represent and that, at the end of this first probationary month, should he accept, the Pyro will want to stick around.” She gives him a wink. A wink! How does she make it look casual and not awkward? I can’t wrap my head around it. Anytime I practice winking at myself in the mirror, I look like I’m broken.

Mr. Singkham’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and he takes her hand, giving her an almost scarily manicured smile. “I appreciate your team’s confidence, as well as your proposal.”

“Our CEO can be credited with the bulk of the brilliance,” Margerie says, tossing the puck back to me. Is that the expression? Can you toss a puck? Pass one maybe, but toss? That would be more like a softball. But I’m pretty sure you lob a softball ...

I realize that Margerie’s chucked the ball directly at my head, and Mr. Singkham’s attention has returned to me along with it. The regular thing to do right now would be to say something.

I choke, body flushing with heat. I put on deodorant this morning, but I’m suddenly regretting not having worn black everything. “It was a team effort.”

Mr. Singkham smiles more fully. Margerie directs his attention away from me and introduces the team, Dan and Jeremy, COO and CFO of the company respectively. They all shake hands while I shift to the side, hoping to lob the baton back to Margerie standing at the front of the room. Too bad it’s a boomerang.

“And of course, you’ve already spoken with our CEO and founder, Ms. Vanessa Theriot. And apologies, but I must confirm: should we refer to you as Kun Prasit or Mr. Singkham? And another apology if I’m pronouncing those incorrectly. Growing up in Wisconsin helps very little when it comes to my prowess in phonetics.” Her smile is bright. As is Mr. Singkham’s as he then confirms that he’s adapted to the American style of salutation since working in this country for over a decade. Mr. Singkham is fine.

I’m both grateful and a little humiliated when his attention turns to Margerie more fully. “Our potential client is being escorted up now by my team. How would you like my staff and I arranged? We will be six, including the Pyro.”

I edge back, using Margerie’s outstretched arm for cover as she gestures toward the conference room table and says, “Yes, please come on in. We’ll have you here at the head of the table. Our CEO will be positioned at this end. Dan, Jeremy, and I will occupy two seats as we’ll take turns standing as we conduct the presentation, though our other staff members will be positioned at that back table to take notes. If you have a reporter of your own who you’d like to take notes, we can put them here at this additional spare table ...”

As Mr. Singkham’s attention turns toward the back of the room and the small table in question, I try to use the opportunity to make it to my seat, except Jeremy’s there and I run into his shoulder face-first. “You okay, boss?” he mouths to me, grabbing me by the shoulders.

Embarrassed, I step back, but my short heel plunges into Dan’s foot. He curses. I turn and open my mouth to mutter a quick apology, but another voice cuts through first.

“What’s wrong with you?” The voice is deep, acidic, and frighteningly calm as it claims the attention of every person in the room. Margerie stops talking midsentence. I look up toward the door. Shadowed slightly by Mr. Singkham’s frame is a much, much larger individual whose presence feels like a storm.

He looks like he just came in from a storm. His black hair hangs long and evidently untrimmed down to his chin, brushing the stretched collar of his shirt in the back. His beard is just as uncared for, thick and rough. His T-shirt is black and has a hole over the stomach the size of a softball and large enough to reveal ... uhh ... abs ... or, more accurately, a ripped abdomen.

His sweatpants have holes over both knees and one on the thigh that I’m grateful isn’t three inches higher up. His boots are so badly scuffed, I don’t think the sole is attached to the shoe because it flaps when he shifts his position, taking a half step back as if struck by shock. And I realize as my gaze travels back up from his feet to his face that he might be. Because his full red lips are tight and his thick black eyebrows are drawn together, the expression on his face excoriating. He’s glaring right at me.

Right.

At.

Me.

And his eyes are glowing .

Air that tastes of chicory fear and saccharine embarrassment slams into me as I watch his lips whisper words that feel meant for me alone: “ What are you? ”

My left knee buckles, and I swoon— swoon —like some Victorian-era maiden with her corset tied too tight to breathe. I start to fall. The unfamiliar male who looks like he just came in from a bar brawl lunges, pushing past Mr. Singkham and causing the older man to stumble directly into Garrison, who’s holding a cup of coffee. It goes flying.

Jem screams, “Not my hair!” Mrs. Morales drops the stack of papers she’s holding. Jeremy surges to try to stop something , slips on the papers, and falls over backward. Dan tries to catch him. They both collide with the rolling chairs, which scatter. Margerie releases a loud “Ooph!” As a chair hits her in the knee, she topples over and Vanya opens her arms to catch her, but Vanya is half Margerie’s size, and they both go down onto the hardwood. The entire crowd has dispersed into chaos around me, which means there’s nothing to stop the Pyro from reaching me.

He arrives in front of me in the time it takes for me to blink and catches my arm. His hand is a shade of brown darker than mine. Huge, it envelops my elbow, holding me upright and keeping me from falling. We’re the only two at this point who aren’t leaning against a wall or table or scattered like bowling pins across the floor. And he doesn’t seem to notice.

He’s too busy invading my space, staring at me in a way that makes my toes actually curl. His eyes are blazing white until spots of pink start to flutter through them, and my mouth is hanging open in dumbfounded shock. I can’t get past his pink-and-white eyes ringed in heavy black lashes, looking like fireworks. Staring into them directly is like staring at the sun during an eclipse. I feel ... woozy.

I waver on my feet, and the Pyro drags me to the left. He pushes me in front of him so I’m forced to walk backward. My ankle rolls, and my arms windmill to catch myself. The Pyro curses.

“Clumsy,” he hisses and grabs my waist. He lifts me up and plonks my ass down on the edge of the table, then slams his hands down onto the sleek charcoal-gray tabletop on either side.

“You ...” he snarls, and a deep rumbling fills the air with what can only be described as vibrations. Chills shoot through my body as the overwhelming sense that something impossible—or at least deeply improbable—is happening and that I’m not prepared for it. I am just a simple human, with deep insecurities underpinned by a whole heap of anxieties, who happens to be good—really good—at marketing. I’m not meant for supernatural shit.

I sit up straight. I feel like I’ve been tased. He steps back like he felt it too. Someone shouts behind the eclipse of his body, “Earthquake!” which is my thought, too, until he shakes his head so subtly I think I might be the only one who sees it.

His eyes flare bright white, and when he clenches his jaw and the little vein across his forehead pulses and the muscle twitches beneath his left eye, I finally understand the intensity he’s throwing at me like a javelin. I can finally put a name to it.

Hate.

This man—male—hates me, even though I’ve never met him before in my life. And then, as Mr. Singkham and Margerie attempt to restore order and Jeremy approaches the Pyro from the side, the Pyro acts.

He lashes out, his arm moving with shocking speed as he grabs Jeremy by the front of his button-up. He drags Jeremy in close. He does all this without ever once looking away from my face with those eyes that were once white and are now flickering with pinks and faint oranges.

He points at my face in a way that spells trouble. My parted lips flounder, working but saying nothing. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. I don’t think I could say anything to stop these trains from colliding, my career the innocent bystander tied to the tracks between them.

“I want her gone.”