Page 25 of Theirs to Hunt

Reagan, Tuesday 03:48 p.m.

Iglance at the clock. It’s almost four. Time to head back to the conference room to meet Mr. Calhoun. No, Grayson. And his team.

As I reach the top floor, I spot Jeff slipping out, walking fast, avoiding eye contact. I smirk and mentally pat myself on the back for my earlier line. Clearly, he got the message.

I knock at the open door and step inside. Grayson and the IT guy are already in the room, their assistants taking notes like furniture. The tension in the air isn’t aimed at me, but my knees feel weak all the same. Sitting down was an excellent idea.

“If you’re ready, I’d like to hear your suggestions,” he says, watching me as I slide into my chair with something that hopefully resembles grace.

If I blow this, it proves them right. That Customer Service doesn’t belong at this table. That I don’t.

I stick to my plan. Tone even. Gaze steady.

Grayson tilts his head slightly, like a predator scenting something new in the air. Yes. Game on.

He doesn’t just look at me. He watches. For nuances. Facial shifts. Tells.

I want to shrink. I want to spread my legs. I hate him. I want him.

Not sustainable.

This is a business meeting. I need to use my brain despite my rioting hormones. How can one man have so much presence without moving?

I played it smart. Not flirty. Pointed. Testing a wire to see if it would spark. I held eye contact a beat too long. Dropped keywords like satisfaction thresholds and compliance curves. I even managedSironce, but when his nostrils flared and pupils dilated, I lost my train of thought and reined it in fast.

If anyone else noticed, they didn’t say a word. But he did. He noticed everything. And dismissed me with a simple incline of his head.

Would it be too much for him to have given me agood girl?

Crap. No. Not good girl.

We are at work. We are at work, I chant to myself.

I sweated to get that damn report finished by four so I could meet with him before five, when they close. By the time I get home, I’m practically vibrating with adrenaline.

Keys on the counter. Heels off. Straight to the bedroom. My skin feels tight. I need a release. Something to take the edge off. Something to remind me I’m still in control.

Drawer. Bottom one.

I yank it open. And freeze.

Empty.

No vibrators. No backup bullet. Not even the gag gift from the bachelorette party.

“What the actual fuck?”

A folded note sits in the back of the drawer. Four words, neat block print:

You won’t need them.

No signature.

My mouth drops open. I spin in a slow circle, scanning the room. Could I have missed something? A camera? A clue? Nothing. Just the stillness of my bedroom.

Heat floods my face. My chest. Lower.

I grab my phone and text Bobbie.