Page 35

“And so, our estimated marketing revamp costs, using data from the refurbishment of the Kensington Hotels brand five years ago, will be around $1.5 million dollars.” Sweat gathers on my palms as I press on the clicker to advance to the last slide of our presentation.

I’m cloistered in Ethan’s large office on the seventieth floor of Fleur Towers two hours later, finishing the initial strategy presentation Sandra and the team put together for Project Dreamer after consulting with other departments.

My eyes rove around the room—three folks from finance, three from marketing, including myself, all gathered around the conference table he has next to his large oak desk.

I studiously avoid looking him in the eye .

Rex was adamant I drive most of the presentations and interviews under the guidance of my team—part of the giving the intern meaningful work with exposure to upper management initiative.

Exposure—ha.

More like pushing me off a cliff and hoping I’ll somehow grow wings.

Seeing no raised hands, I continue, “The breakdown comprises rebranding, website overhaul, social media and digital advertising, and experiential marketing events such as pop ups or in-hotel experiences.”

With the end in sight, I rush through the plan our team laid out, keeping my eyes pinned on Sandra, who’s nodding encouragingly at me .

But nausea swirls inside me—the same sensation I felt when I had a milkshake and two hot dogs right before I got on the Cycle of Doom in Coney Island.

I nearly puked my guts out afterward.

He hasn’t said anything.

No “Hi.” No “Keep going.”

Nothing.

I only feel his burning stare lasering me to the spot.

“Any questions?” I strain a smile after finishing the presentation.

A few nods from the team, but then everyone turns to look at the boss in the room—the icy king of numbers.

The Deliminator.

Ethan leans back in his chair, his fingers playing with his cuff links—the same pair he always wears.

“How long until the project breaks even?”

Sandra opens her mouth, but Ethan raises his hand, his eyes still pinned on me.

“And your prelim cost analysis, I see nothing for room or infrastructure updates—I assume our internet modems from ten years ago won’t cut it for the younger generation who want fast and free Wi-Fi.”

“Um, I uh…” Sweat beads my back.

“We can take that back and…” I should know this.

I went through this with the team.

Why can’t I remember anything?

Sandra clears her throat.

“Sir, based on our initial research, we think—”

“And do we think the Kensington revamp is the proper comp for The Strata? The customer base is very different.”

He fires off more questions—questions I have no answers for—and my face grows hot.

Stop fidgeting, Lexy.

The Deliminator is in his full glory, completed with one lonely sunbeam streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing him in an otherworldly light .

The god of war.

I wet my lips, and his gaze darts to the movement.

I think about the night that shall not be remembered.

The rasp of his voice.

The gentleness in his touch.

The way we moved as one, even with all our clothes on.

I swallow a groan.

Dammit, Lexy.

You can’t remember four years of your life, but you can describe down to every mortifying detail what happened between you and Ethan Anderson on the dance floor.

My skin flames and his eyes flare, as if he can read my lurid thoughts.

The palpable tension stretches on—a strange, awkward silence I can almost taste—I shift on my feet.

“Meeting adjourned.” His gaze is inscrutable and a muscle twitches in his jaw.

“Ms. Vaughn, can you stay behind?”

Sandra and the others quickly gather their things, a few of them throwing sympathetic glances my way before scurrying out the door.

“You want me to stay with you?” Sandra mouths, her eyes darting between me and Ethan, who looks like he wants to murder his laptop.

“It’s fine. I got this.” I shoo her away.

“You sure?”

“Ms. Hale, don’t you have better places to be?” Ethan’s voice is a whip lashing us.

Sandra jolts and hauls ass out of the room.

The door snicks shut.

I gulp, my heart palpitating.

I must’ve fucked up the presentation.

Why did I even think I could—

“Alexis, did you understand what you just presented?”

His voice was quiet—almost gentle—and I snap my head up, finding him staring at me in his usual unnerving way.

Like he can see through me.

“Just give me another chance. I promise I’ll do more research and be better prepared—”

“That’s not what I asked.” He beckons me over.

“Come, sit down.”

I swallow, my breathing thready, and take a seat next to him—well, more like he’s sitting at the head of the table and I’m sitting to the right of him…

as far away as I can without appearing I’m avoiding the proximity .

He arches his brow, his lips twitching, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“Ryland wanted to improve our internship programs to give interns a better taste of the real world. Decisions to be made. Costs. Pressures. It wasn’t meant to torture you.”

Ethan’s lips form a ghost of a smile and my heart flips.

He continues, “But our interns can’t succeed if they don’t know the basics. The entire program will be meaningless then. So let me ask you again, were you comfortable with what you were presenting?”

I blow out a breath.

I thought I hid it well.

“No. Honestly, I didn’t really follow the financial analysis.”

“That’s what I thought. I ended the meeting early because I want to help you.”

“Help me?”

“It’s okay to ask for help, you know that, right?”

“Do you always help interns? Aren’t you a CFO and busy?” I bite my lip, feeling my face burn again.

I shouldn’t have asked that.

Are you a fucking idiot, Lexy?

A choked sound escapes him.

I snap my eyes back up again, finding him grinning, the rare sight sending my heartbeats into a fritz.

“Became a loner. Barely smiles. Turning into a block of ice. I worry about him.” Lana’s words at the club floats to the surface.

I made him smile.

Feminine pride sweeps through me, and my lips twitch.

“You always speak your mind, don’t you?” He chuckles, then suddenly freezes, as if he’s surprised.

“Just like before,” he murmurs under his breath.

“What?” I must’ve misheard because it made no sense to me.

“Nothing.” He clears his throat and glances at the clock.

“I have the afternoon cleared. Why don’t I explain the metrics to you?”

His eyes hold mine captive.

There’s a wistfulness inside them—a hint of sadness.

His chest stills, like he’s stopped breathing.

I blink. “What? ”

The strange expression vanishes, and a half-grin makes a reappearance.

“You’re a parrot today. I’m offering my help. Tutor you on the financial metrics. Unless you don’t think you need—”

“Oh, I definitely do!” I sit up straight, flummoxed at the recent turn of events.

But who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?

He’s uncharacteristically nice today and has made no comments about the event at Mystique.

Maybe I can pretend it was just an alcohol induced dream?

Standing up, he shrugs off his navy suit jacket and hangs it on the coatrack.

His rippling muscles strain under his sky-blue shirt and navy vest—this is a man who works out.

Religiously.

God, blue really looks good on him.

Then he strides to his desk, picks up the phone, and presses a button.

I look around his office.

I was too nervous during my presentation to admire the modern elegant decor of dark woods and sleek lines.

Books line his shelves along with placards and awards.

It’s obvious this man is well read and successful, and from what Lana said—he got here by himself.

I inwardly wince as I think back to how I accused him of nepotism back when I was in the hospital.

I need to apologize.

There are large, framed photos lining the walls—black and white, artistic of exotic locations.

I eye the two closest to me.

One of him in a desert, the sun beating down his face, an orange parachute strapped to his back.

Another one of him at a beautiful beach, the waves lapping the shoreline.

He’s a traveler. I grin at the tidbits I’m learning about this mysterious man.

They make him more human.

Then I notice how in each photo, he’s standing to the side, completely off-centered, his smile strained.

He’s holding something, a book or a—I inch closer to take a better look when he speaks.

“Debbie, hold my calls for the rest of the day.”

“Sir, what about your meeting with Mr. Vaughn tonight?”

I frown.

Vaughn? Who? Charles ?

“Tell Liam I’ll text him later.”

“Okay. What about your weekly swim time? Do you still want me to remind you?”

I arch my brow and glance at him.

Scheduled swim time?

He looks straight at me, his dark eyes giving nothing away. “Cancel it.”