Page 36 of For the Plot

I blink. “Oh. Okay. Of course.”

He nods once. “Start preparing the client briefing. We’ll fly out Thursday morning.”

I nod back, but my brain’s still catching up.

“Boston,” I say again, mostly to myself.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “Pack light.”

The door closes behind me before I can ask what the hell that means. But I’m still smiling when I reach my desk. And suddenly, next week can’t come soon enough.

Chapter 8

Reece

The sound of her laughter carries through the glass.

I hear it even from my office, three doors down. Not loud, not obnoxious… just a soft, melodic sound that lands like a stone in the center of my chest. She’s talking to Leo again. Her voice dips, then lifts again, teasing, familiar, just shy of flirtatious.

I don’t like it… alright, I fucking hate it.

I tell myself it’s because workplace dynamics are complicated. That I’m trying to avoid gossip or inappropriate tension. That I don’t need the distraction while we’re heading into two massive acquisition negotiations. That it has nothing to do with the way she looked at me yesterday, from under her lashes, with that devastating combination of challenge and curiosity.

I scroll through my inbox, rereading the same client update for the fourth time without absorbing a single word. My body’s here, but my mind hasn’t caught up since she walked into the office yesterday morning wearing that fitted navy pencil skirt and a blouse the exact shade of her flushed cheeks when I complimented her copy edits.

She’d looked like trouble wrapped in silk. And I am in no shape to take on more trouble.

A knock on the glass makes me sit up straighter. My door is already open, but she still waits in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other holding a red folder against her chest like a shield.

“I have the mockup for the Fielder brief,” she says. Her tone is neutral. Casual. But her eyes flick to my mouth before she adds, “You have a second?”

God help me.

I nod once and wave her in, forcing my expression blank. “Of course.”

She crosses the room without hesitation, confident in her heels, in her body, in the sharp twist of her waist when she pivots and places the folder on my desk. Her perfume follows her; it’s vanilla and warmth, so intoxicatingly feminine it’s burned into my brain.

She leans slightly over the desk to open the folder. I don’t look at her ass, but I feel the strain in my neck from the effort.

“Leo and I worked through most of the timeline this morning,” she says, flipping to the second page. “I streamlined the client deliverables into weekly goals and marked key decision points in red.”

I murmur something like approval, but it’s drowned out by the pounding in my head. She’s close enough that I can see the edge of her bra beneath her blouse: lace, pale pink, a delicate contrast to her sharp red nails.

“Here.” She taps the page, unaware, or pretending to be, that I’m three seconds away from telling her to take five steps back before I ruin both of our lives.

Her hand lingers, her fingers inches from mine.

I force myself to move in an unhurried manner, reaching for the folder without touching her. My knuckles graze the paperwhere hers were, and the heat lingers like static. I turn the page just for something to do with my hands.

“Good work,” I say. My voice sounds strained. “Very thorough.”

She smiles. A slow curve, not at all surprised. “I used to be a control freak in group projects. I’m channeling that.”

“Whatever works.” We hover in silence for a second too long. I finally clear my throat. “I’ll review the rest this afternoon. Anything else?”

She hesitates. Just barely.

“No, sir.”