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When the next meeting begins, Declan is all business. His demeanor is sharp and focused while exuding an air of impatience that occasionally veers into abrasiveness. Each time I pass him a document, I feel the fleeting brush of his fingers against mine, a jolt of electricity sparking through the air between us. Once could easily be dismissed as an accident, but twice begins to form an intriguing pattern.
By the fourth time our hands collide, the heat of his touch lingers in my mind, and I find myself caught in a whirlwind of thoughts about what those strong fingers would feel like against my skin. The realization sends a flush of embarrassment through me, and I want to slap myself back to reality.
We’re reviewing a security proposal when he snatches a sheet from my stack, only to toss it back a second later. “You missed a line in the city’s bid,” he snaps, tapping the page.
I don’t even blink. “No, I crossed it out. That line’s from the old request for proposal. They updated it last night.” I grab the tablet, pull up the email, and hand it to him.
He reads, his eyes scanning the lines intently, then frowns deeply, creasing his brow before finally looking up at me. For the first time, he appears off-balance, as if the ground beneath him has shifted. "You're right," he admits, his voice carrying a note of grudging acceptance.
"I know," I respond, and even though I intend the words to be firm, they emerge softer, almost gentle.
Silence envelops us, not an uncomfortable hush, but one heavy with unspoken thoughts and emotions. His jaw clenches and unclenches as though he's wrestling with the urge to speak, yet unsure of the words. Ultimately, he opts for a simple nod, acknowledging the moment.
After the meeting, he follows me to the breakroom and stands there watching as I pour coffee. “Do you ever get flustered?” he asks, like it’s a genuine question.
“Not unless someone’s bleeding,” I say, dropping a sugar cube into my mug.
His lips twitch. “Good. We need that around here.”
* * *
When noon rolls around, I’m barely holding it together. He’s everywhere—on calls, in meetings, hovering near my desk, always with some new crisis to triage or paperwork to review. Each time we’re in the same room, my awareness of him sharpens. The way he sits with his legs sprawled and his hands steepled is seriously hot. The slight rasp to his laugh when someone actually surprises him sends a shiver up my spine. The scar on his right knuckle that catches the light when he taps the table for emphasis makes me curious as to where he got it.
I should be annoyed. I mean, he’s rude, impatient, and impossible to please. But I’m not. Or, I am, but only in the way that makes me want to lean in and argue more. The more he pushes, the more I want to push back. And that’s starting to bleed into other thoughts: what it would feel like to be pinned against that glass wall, what he’d sound like in bed, and whether he’s as bossy naked as he is in a boardroom.
I shake myself. This is not the plan. The plan was to impress him, get a solid reference, and move up the ladder somewhere less unhinged.
I pull up the next call on his calendar, dial it, and buzz his office. “Your two o’clock is ready,” I say.
He picks up, voice low and gruff. “Send them in.”
I stand, straighten my skirt, and ignore the tremor in my knees.
One more meeting, I promise myself. Then I’ll get a grip.
But when he walks past, so close I can smell that clean, spicy cologne, my hands shake just a little on the folder.
Goddammit, I think. This was not supposed to happen.
* * *
By the time I’m done wrangling Declan’s inbox and cleaning up after a city council disaster, I’m running so hot that my lips buzz every time I close my mouth too hard. I keep looking up from my keyboard, expecting to find him lurking behind my glass partition, but he’s gone into one of his closed-door rages with the IT contractor. If I ever want to survive this job, I need to figure out how to reset my system before I do something reckless, like unbutton my blouse just to see if I can break his goddamn poker face.
At exactly thirteen-o-eight, I snag my purse and duck into the ladies’ room.
The McDaid Security ladies’ room is probably the nicest I’ve ever seen, with marble counters, gold fixtures, and spa-tier lighting. I choose the stall at the end, lock it, and let my spine melt against the cool tile. My hands shake just a little as I dig through my bag for anything to fixate on that isn’t the heat in my stomach or the memory of Declan’s hands on mine.
I stand there, breathing slow and even, like I’m prepping for a presentation. It takes almost a full minute for my pulse to drop under one hundred twenty. I count tile grout lines. I try to list the names of every US President in order. None of it works. All I can see is the way his mouth moved when he said, “You’re good at this,” like it was both a threat and a promise.
I want to scream. Instead, I press my palms to my cheeks, then force myself to unlock the stall and face the mirror.
My hair looks okay, but my skin is flushed, high on my cheeks and down my throat. I run cold water over my wrists until the tingling goes numb, then blot my face with a paper towel. The chill helps for maybe two seconds.
That’s when I catch myself in the mirror and realize I’m still trembling, a livewire in a buttoned-up suit. If I don’t get this out of my system, I’m going to melt down in front of the entire floor.
I stumble back into the stall, my legs trembling like a fucking earthquake, and collapse onto the closed toilet lid. My skirt rides up my thighs, exposing the creamy skin of my inner legs, and I don’t even bother to adjust it. Fuck modesty. The air is thick with the scent of my own arousal, and I can feel the slickness pooling between my thighs, soaking through my panties like I’m some kind of desperate slut. Which, let’s be honest, I am right now.
I listen for footsteps outside, but it’s dead fucking silent. Everyone’s at lunch, stuffing their faces while I’m here, about to stuff something else entirely. No excuses left. No one’s coming to save me from myself. Good.
