Page 31 of Babies for the Big Shot

“It’s exactly that simple. You want her. She wants you. Either do something about it or stop looking like you’re dying by inches.”

I drag a hand down my face. The burn of rough stubble against my palm is grounding, but it does nothing to ease the ache spreading through my chest.

“If I touch her again,” I say, my voice low and final, “I won’t let go.”

Jonah watches me for a long, silent moment before he shrugs once, unapologetic. “Then don’t let go.”

He turns and heads for the door, pausing in the frame with his hand braced on the edge. “Figure it out, Nick. Before she decides to figure it out without you.”

The door closes behind him with an audible click.

I remain standing by the window, staring out at the city I’ve mastered, unable to move. Unable to breathe.

Because the reality is, I have always known what I want. I knew it the night she walked into that gala wearing a dress that should have been illegal, her eyes lit with defiance and something far more dangerous.

She didn’t falter when I pushed her, didn’t shrink away or bend to accommodate my intensity. She pushed back with equal force, meeting my challenge without hesitation or fear.

And in that moment, I knew.

I want her. In every possible sense.

It isn’t about sex, though God knows I want her in my bed. It’s about everything else. I want her in my mornings, with her hair tangled from sleep and her eyes heavy with dreams she hasn’t yet shared. I want to know the sound of her laughter when she’s tired and unguarded.

I want her sharp wit, her irreverent observations, her ridiculous notebook filled with color-coded lists and tiny, looping handwriting. I want to hold her steady when the world strips her defenses away, and I want to see if she curls into me the way she did that day in my office when she kissed me with a desperation that stripped me of my own armor.

That’s what terrifies me.

Because wanting her isn’t a casual decision I can compartmentalize and manage. It isn’t safe. It’s the kind of wanting that consumes. That rewrites everything I thought I knew about desire and purpose and consequence.

It is, quite simply, everything.

And the thought of what it would do to me if I lost her—if I let myself reach for this only to fail her—I’m not certain I’m strong enough to survive that kind of failure.

I spend the entire day avoiding her.

I reroute meetings to other managers. I send clipped, sterile emails in place of direct requests. I remain locked in the executive suite under the guise of strategic planning, but the truth is simpler and infinitely weaker: I’m hiding. The entire day is an exercise in silent humiliation because I know exactly what I’m doing, and I hate myself for it.

Yet every time I think I’ve regained control, she infiltrates my periphery. I catch sight of her ponytail disappearing into a conference room down the hall. I hear her voice through a partially open door during a client call, cool and professional, unshaken by any of what has occurred between us. She sounds infuriatingly competent, unbothered, focused entirely on her work, and somehow that only deepens the ache clawing through my chest.

I want her more for it. For that composure. For that strength.

By mid-afternoon, I have abandoned all pretense of productivity. My eyes track data across my screen without comprehension. My hands curl into fists against the desktop, twitching with the need to do something—call her, text her, leave this office and demand we finish the conversation we have never allowed ourselves to begin.

But I remain seated.

I grit my teeth against the urge. I let it burn its way through me, hollowing out everything that makes me civilized.

And then the door opens.

No knock. No courtesy. No polite announcement from Emily over the intercom.

She just walks in.

As though the space belongs to her. As though the air I am struggling to draw into my lungs is hers to claim. Technically, she has every right to be here, but the instant my eyes land on her, the world reduces to a single point of focus.

She’s wearing fitted black trousers and a soft ivory blouse that draws attention to the curve of her neck. Her lips are slightly parted, as if she has been mouthing the words she plans to say before stepping in. Her eyes, those eyes that undid me the first time I met them, are sharp with purpose and something far more resolute.

“Apologies,” she says briskly, her tone efficient and cool. “I didn’t realize you were occupied.”