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FAITH

I get to the meeting room fifteen minutes early to prepare my notes. I know the office grump, also known as Ford Grant, will be looking to do anything he can to deny my request. I like to refer to him as a gargoyle in my head since he’s made of stone. Although, it would be so much easier to deal with him if he looked as monstrous as his stony counterparts. But no, that would be far too easy. Instead, Ford looks like he’s cut straight from a muscle magazine or something.

If he weren’t my office enemy, he’d be my office crush.

Who are you kidding? He’s already both , my brain says. I shove the thought away with a frown, refusing to acknowledge that unhelpful comment.

Refocusing on the matter at hand, I read through my notes again. I wasn’t here when the budget was agreed upon at the end of last quarter, and whoever the last marketing manager was clearly didn’t care about pushing the company forward because there’s no way I can make this abysmal number stretch to do what we need to do.

I plan to tell Ford exactly how I feel about it.

I have a lot to prove here, and Ford poses a big threat. I need to prove to him that I know what I’m talking about, that I deserve my place here, and that I deserve a decent budget to blow them all away with. He clearly doesn’t like me; I can tell from his cold stares and silent treatment, and that just makes me want to prove myself even more.

I exhale slowly, squaring my shoulders as the door swings open.

My head snaps up the second Ford enters.

It’s like the whole world shrinks until nothing is left but Ford and me. The air between us crackles with unspoken energy, sending sparks and goosebumps along my skin. I try not to react, clenching my jaw and hiding my hands under the table so he can’t see the way I’m fidgeting.

Keep it cool, Faith , I tell myself.

But it’s impossible to ignore the attraction simmering in my chest. Impossible to ignore the craving in my bones, the hunger burning low in my stomach. As hard as I try, I can’t deny the way my whole being begs for him.

I hate him, right? So why do I want him so damn bad?

I try to find a place of calm inside myself because there’s no point in me wasting energy snapping at Ford or winding him up. He never rises to the bait, and that’s just as annoying as everything else about him.

Ford startles, as if coming out of a dream, and finally steps into the room fully. The door falls closed behind him with a final thud that reverberates through my whole body.

I can’t let him get the first word in, so I start talking before he even sits down across from me.

“Thank you for meeting me, Ford,” I begin, shuffling the papers in front of me again. “I asked you here because I have to say that this budget is just not going to work. Why anybody ever agreed to this, honestly ridiculously low number, is beyond me. I cannot be expected to get the results I need with such a limited scope. Frankly, it’s impossible for me to run the campaigns we all know we need with these numbers. Honestly, Ford, I have to wonder whether this is personal. You’re obstructing my work, and this is unreasonable. I’d expect better from someone who’s supposed to be as knowledgeable as you are as the head of Finance.”

The whole time I’m ranting, furious, and full of indignation, Ford just sits there across from me, sipping on a coffee and looking at me with an utterly unfazed expression on his stupidly handsome face. There’s a tasteful smatter of stubble on his cut jaw, a flop of hair over his forehead that only highlights his cut-from-stone perfection even more. Those dark forest-green eyes of his are locked onto me, and I can’t look away.

I can’t break his stare.

I can’t back down.

I keep going, doubling down and hammering my point in, ensuring he knows exactly how I feel. By the time I’m done, there’s a smirk tilting up the right corner of his lips and a heat to his green eyes that sends my heart racing. He waits a beat before answering me, stretching out the tension to the point I feel like I might break before it does.

“Well?” I say, unable to take it anymore. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

That smirk stretches again. Ford leans forward, elbows on the table. “All you had to do was ask, Faith,” he says, his voice velvety and low.

I gape at him, too stunned to come up with a witty retort. Did he really just say that?

I can’t have him seeing through me right now, and from the weight of his stare, I know he’s studying the cracks in my armor. I look away, pulling out my phone like it can shield me under the guise of checking the time. I keep my phone angled beneath the table, tapping out a quick message to my best friend, Natalie.

Me: I can’t decide if I want to fight this man or fuck him.

I hit send under the table without looking, my gaze trapped by Ford’s, and set my phone back down. I take a deep breath, trying to center myself and find the words to continue the conversation.

“You’re hardly the most approachable man in the office,” I say, “and I strive for professionalism, which is why I called the meeting?—”

At that moment, Ford’s phone beeps in his pocket, interrupting me. I sigh heavily as he pulls it out of his pocket and checks it, despite the fact I did the same thing seconds ago. Winding him up is just too tempting, even though it never works. Or, at least, it never normally does.

But Ford’s eyes lift from the screen to me, dark and swirling like the heart of a storm. His jaw tenses, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows thickly. Awareness prickles through me like a physical touch.

With that one look, I realize just how much Ford has been holding back, hiding beneath the calm facade.

“Striving for professionalism, are you?” Ford repeats my own words back to me, one dark eyebrow raised at me.

I raise my chin, not backing down. “Yes.”

Ford laughs. He actually laughs. The sound is a low rumble, like a roll of thunder over my skin, and just as dangerous as a storm. I freeze, feeling a rush of adrenaline begin to seep into my bloodstream. My body sways closer to him across the table without my permission.

His eyes dip from mine back to his phone screen, his lips turning up in that lopsided smirk that sets my heart racing so hard my ribs ache. I nearly stop breathing as he reads the words off his phone.

The words I just typed out.

“I can’t decide if I want to fight this man,” Ford says slowly and calmly. I brace myself, gripping the edge of the table like it’ll save me from the words I know are about to leave his mouth. “Or fuck him.”

The air between us goes still and taut as a drawn bowstring. I don’t dare to move even an inch.

How the fuck did I manage to send that text to him and not Natalie?! I guess that’s what I get for sending a text without looking at the screen properly. Shit .

I stammer, unable to find any words to explain myself. That dark, hot gleam in Ford’s eyes makes it impossible to remember how to act normally.

“Can’t decide, huh?” he asks. “Let’s figure it out then.”

Before I can react, he pushes to his feet, strides to the door, and clicks it locked. He crosses to the windows and yanks the blinds shut next.

Suddenly, this meeting room feels much smaller and much more intimate than it ever has before.

We’re in our office, but with the door locks and blinds drawn, any pretense of professionalism I’d been trying to cling to vanishes.