“You are. Which makes the question more interesting.”
“I don’t know,” she answers. “Inertia, maybe. Fear of starting over. The illusion that if I just waited long enough, he’d see me.”
“Did he ever?”
“No.” Her voice is quiet. “I don’t think Logan sees anyone beyond what they can do for him.”
The honesty in her tone makes me uncomfortable. I’ve known this about my son for years and watched him use people and discard them without conscience. But hearing it from someone who lived through it hits differently.
“You deserved better than that,” I tell her.
“Maybe I didn’t think I did.”
“Why?” I ask. “What makes you think you deserved to be treated like you didn’t matter?”
She takes a deep breath. “My mom died when I was eighteen,” she says. “Cancer. It was fast and brutal, and afterward I just…I don’t know. I felt like I was treading water. Like if I stopped moving, I’d drown.”
“Did you stay with Logan because moving on felt like drowning?”
“Something like that.” She wipes at her eyes quickly. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Because I asked.” I stand and move around the desk, leaning against it so I’m closer to her. “And because you need to tell someone.”
“My stepfather—Robert—he tries. But he lost her too. It’s hard for him to talk about.”
I file that information away. The stepfather she mentioned briefly. The one who’s been texting her since she arrived.
“What do you want, Samantha? What do you actually want from your life?”
She stares up at me, and I watch her process the question.
“I want to matter,” she says finally. “I want to do work that means something. Build something that lasts. I want to wake up and not feel like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.”
“You’re not pretending now.”
“Aren’t I?” She laughs, but it’s hollow. “I’m sitting in a billionaire’s private office talking about my dead mother and my terrible ex-boyfriend. This isn’t exactly authentic living.”
“It’s more authentic than anything you had with Logan.”
“That’s a low bar.”
“Then raise it.” I reach out and touch her face, my thumb brushing her cheekbone. “Stop settling for low bars.”
She doesn’t pull away. She holds my gaze while my hand cups her jaw.
“Grant,” she whispers. Her lips part, breath trembling, and she does something unexpected. She rises onto her toes and kisses me.
The first brush is soft and testing. The second is not. I take her mouth like I’ve been starving for it, one hand sliding into her hair, the other gripping her waist to pull her flush against me. She makes a small, desperate sound that shoots straight to my cock.
I lift her without thinking, setting her on the desk. My tongue strokes hers, slow and filthy, until her thighs part on instinct, and I step between them.
Her hands are suddenly frantic, yanking my shirt open. Buttons ping across the room. I let her, shrugging the fabric off my shoulders while I drag her top up and over her head. Lace bra, pale pink, barely containing her. I mouth along the edge, teeth scraping skin, and she arches hard.
“Grant,” she breathes.
I answer by sliding one hand straight into her leggings, cupping her through damp cotton. She’s soaked already. I press the heel of my hand against her clit, and she jerks, nails digging into my biceps.
“You’re soaked,” I mutter against her throat.
