Page 17

Spreadsheets. Client notes. Blessed, boring normalcy. Maybe if I stare hard enough, I’ll forget the way his eyes looked when he said he didn’t want it to be over.

Chapter 8

Noah

Oh, fuck.

She’s bent over the printer, sleeves shoved to her elbows, blouse tugging tight across her back, the full curve of her ass on show under a tight pencil skirt as she wrestles with a half-chewed sheet of paper. The machine whines like it’s on its last breath, buttons flashing, and she’s muttering curses under her breath while jabbing at them like it might finally submit if she hits it hard enough.

And I’m just—standing here. In the doorway. File clutched to my chest like a goddamn schoolboy with a book report, too scared to clear my throat in case I startle her, too terrified to stay silent in case Marla herself materializes and skins me alive.

Speak, moron.

“Uh—hey,” I manage, voice cracking halfway out of my throat. “So—um. The client emailed, the meeting’s been moved forward to eleven instead of one.”

She groans, pushing up off the printer. “Seriously?”

My stomach lurches. Christ, that sound. She’s annoyed, and my chest’s already folding in on itself like I’ve personally ruined her week. “Y-yeah,” I stammer, clutching the file tighter so it doesn’t slip out of my hands. “Eleven. I know. I’m—uh—I’m sorry. I mean—it wasn’t me, obviously, it’s just⁠—”

Shut up. Shut the fuck up.

Her eyes flick over her shoulder at me, and I swear every molecule of oxygen leaves the room. My heart’s pounding so hard I’m convinced she can hear it over the grinding printer.

Don’t look at her mouth. Don’t.

I look at her mouth.

Fuck.

She finally wrenches the jammed page free, crumpled and half-burned at the edges, and dumps it straight into the recycling bin without so much as a glance. Then she turns—fully, sharply—and it hits me like a punch. Stray strands of hair have fallen loose, brushing against her cheek, catching the flicker of the overhead light as she blows them away with an impatient huff.

“For fuck’s sake,” she mutters.

And then she’s gone—storming out of the printer room, right through the bullpen, cutting a fast path between cubicles. I scramble after her, file jammed against my chest.

She cuts a straight line to her cubicle, snatches her tablet off the desk, then leans over the partition to the next. “Sam—Cos Solutions is bumped to eleven. Pull Eleanor and Mike for me, will you? Twenty minutes.”

Sam blinks up from his monitor, halfway to a mouthful of chips, then nods fast. “Gotcha.”

And then she’s moving again. No pause, no glance back. Just heels hammering a path toward the stairwell. I stumble after her, pulse in my throat, trying not to look like a lost intern trailing his handler.

“I’m assuming you’ve prepped,” she says as we step onto the next floor. “But the Cos team like it tight—numbers first, strategy second. Clean, quick. Don’t bother dressing it up—outcomes sell better than pretty language with them. Approvals, we’ll tag-team. Got it?”

She glances over her shoulder at me, brow raised.

“Y-yeah,” I stammer. “Got it.”

“Good.” She doesn’t wait—just pushes through the door of the glass conference room, and strides straight in.

I follow, fumbling in behind her.

“Feeling nervous?” she says, rounding the table.

“No,” I blurt a little too quickly.

She drops her tablet onto the table with a thunk, then looks up at me. “Breathe,” she says. “You’ve done loads of these before, right?”

“Yeah. Of course.”