Page 40 of For the Plot

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

Her voice is barely a whisper. “Like what?”

Like I’m a man and not her boss. Like she wants me to lose control. Like she knows she could take me apart with one look and maybe, just maybe, she wants to see if I’ll let her.

“Like you’re waiting for me to make a mistake,” I say.

She smiles, slow and wicked. “Maybe I am.”

I clench my jaw. Every nerve in my body is begging for release. For permission. But instead, I take a step back—just enough distance to remind myself who I’m supposed to be.

“We leave for Boston in a few days,” I say. “Start preparing the launch brief for Forrester. Jen will send you the deck.”

Her smile falters for just a second, but she covers it with a nod. “Yes, sir.”

Christ.

She stands up and grabs the tablet, tucking it under one arm, then walks toward the door but not without slowing just enough as she passes me. Her arm grazes the front of my shirt, the contact subtle but unmistakably intentional.

She pauses, right there in my space, and tilts her head up, eyes locking with mine. Calculated. Daring. A look that strips the last shred of professionalism from the air and sets something darker in its place.

“By the way, I checked the weather,” she says, voice low, silken. “Supposed to be hot and sticky in Boston next week.”

I don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Her lips curve, slow and satisfied, and then she walks out—leaving the scent of her perfume and the wreckage of my composure behind.

I wait until the door clicks shut before dragging a hand down my face and blowing out a breath.

She’s going to be the death of me. And I think, deep down, I want her to be.

The cityoutside my penthouse glows with a familiarity that leaves me feeling alone. I stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of bourbon in my hand, the window reflecting back a version of me I don’t recognize anymore.

My tie hangs loose, my hair mussed and my sleeves pushed up my forearms. My jaw is clenched so tight I can feel the tension buzzing behind my ears and the dull pain behind my eyes.

I haven’t relaxed a single bit since I got home. Didn’t turn on the lights when I walked in. Didn’t answer the text from Archer.

Archer:Dinner this week? You’re not allowed to ghost me forever, old man.

Didn’t eat. Didn’t even hang up my suit jacket. It’s draped over the back of the barstool where I left it, wrinkling by the second but I don’t care.

Because all I can see—all I can fucking see—is the way she looked at me across that table today. Bold. Curious. Completely fearless.

And then… the smile when I told her I was intimidated. Like she saw something in me no one else has in years. Like she wanted to reach out and unravel me.

I take a sip of the bourbon. It burns going down, but not nearly enough. The burn I need? It’s under my skin. It’s in the way I can’t stop picturing her thighs crossing as she leaned back in that chair… how her voice lowered when she asked,“Like what?”

You know damn well like fucking what. Like I want to fuck you within an inch of your life. Like you want me to tell you to crawl to me on all fours like the filthy fucking tease you are.

I could barely stand it. Could barely walk away. And now that I have, I feel like a man with a loaded gun and no idea where the safety is.

I walk to the kitchen, needing to move, needing to do something, but even the act of rinsing out my empty tumbler feels like a performance. In truth, a lot of my life has felt like a performance these last few years. I grip the edge of the marble counter until my knuckles go white.

It’s not just about wanting her. I could manage that. I’ve lived a decade without touching anyone in a way that meant something. I know how to function through ache. I know how to channel need into something useful.

But this? This is different. It’s not just need. It’s the danger of feeling awake again. Alive. And that scares the shit out of me.