Page 86 of For the Plot

Eventually, he shifts, lifts his head, and looks down at me with something in his eyes that steals my breath.

“Hi,” I whisper.

He brushes his thumb over my cheekbone. “Hi.”

And for once, there are no jokes. No power plays. Just us. And all the things we’re still too afraid to say.

Chapter 18

Reece

She hums when she enters. Not loud, not obvious, but I hear it. A soft melody under her breath as she sets her iced coffee down and bends to tuck a folder into the bottom drawer of the cabinet by my door. Her heels click against the marble, echoing in the early quiet of the office, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop the thought: I should never have touched her.

But I did. And now I’m wrecked.

I barely look up from my screen when she steps into my office, but I don’t need to. I can smell her perfume. The one she wasn’t wearing in Boston. This one is floral—vanilla, maybe—and it clings to my lungs like it’s marking me from the inside out.

She holds out a paper cup with a crooked smile. "I took a gamble. Oat milk vanilla latte. No whipped cream. You look like a no-whip kind of guy."

I arch a brow but take it. Our fingers brush. My pulse trips.

"How very judgmental of you, Miss Rhodes."

"Just observational," she counters, spinning slowly on her heel like she has all the time in the world. She pauses at the window, gazing out at the skyline like she isn’t driving me completely insane.

I look down at the latte. It’s perfect. Too sweet, slightly nutty. Exactly right.

"You planning on standing there all morning?"

She turns, grinning. "Depends. You planning on yelling at me today? Because if not, I might stick around."

I don’t smile. But the corner of my mouth lifts.

"Not unless you deserve it."

She perches on the edge of the credenza. Her skirt rides up just enough to show the smooth, pale skin above her knee. I force myself to look away.

"I’ve been thinking about going back to school," she says, tone casual but eyes darting like she’s bracing for judgment. “Maybe getting my masters in PR or marketing. Or brand strategy. I don’t know. Something creative but not so sales focused."

I lean back in my chair, folding my hands behind my head. "You’d be good at it. You think fast. You read people. That’s most of the job."

Her lips part slightly. I see it hit her. The weight of that approval.

"You’re not just saying that?"

"I don’t say anything I don’t mean."

She stares at me a beat longer than necessary, then looks down at her nails. "I’ve been playing it safe for so long. It’s scary thinking about starting over."

"Then don’t start over. Start from here. Use what you’ve learned. Build on it."

She blinks, then nods slowly.

I clear my throat. "If you want help talking through options, you know where to find me."

She smiles again—softer this time. "Mr. Blackwood mentoring his son’s ex. Sounds like the beginning of a really awkward sitcom."

"Not if I cancel it after the pilot," I murmur.