“Lyra,” he says, slow and precise, like he’s tasting the word.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Damien,” he replies, offering his hand.
I take it. His grip is firm, but not aggressive. Just... solid. “Nice to meet you, Damien. Even if the introduction was a bit dramatic.”
“Memorable,” he corrects.
I laugh. A real one this time. The tight coil in my chest loosens just a little.
I glance at his companion, who is still ignoring us, and then back to Damien.
“Is your accent Russian?” I ask, regretting it instantly.
He doesn’t seem to mind. “It is. I was born in Moscow.”
“It suits you.”
That almost-smile again. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was meant as one.”
Another pause. This one comfortable, somehow.
“I should get back to work,” I say, even though I kind of don’t want to.
He nods once. “You probably should.”
I turn, walking away quickly before I can say something stupid. But I feel his eyes on me the whole way.
The rush picks up again, but I move through it on autopilot. I’m all smiles, grace under pressure, gliding between tables like I haven’t just had my wrist grabbed and nearly lost my job for throwing a drink in someone’s face, which I didn’t do, but very nearly did.
I finally glance back toward Damien’s table.
It’s empty. My chest drops in unexpected disappointment.
I approach the table, clearing glasses and checking for the bill. It’s been paid, of course. And the tip quite generous. Enough to make my stomach clench.
Then I see it again. The card.
This time, I actually look.
Damien Morozov
CEO, Integrated Solutions
I blink.
No way.
Integrated Solutions.ThatIntegrated Solutions. Cybersecurity firm with contracts in half the Fortune 500. The company I applied to last week. The one I’ve dreamed of working at since college.
The one I’m interviewing at tomorrow for fuck’s sake.
My hands go cold.
Well, shit.
