I knock.
No answer.
“Mr. Rossi?” I call through the door.
Still nothing.
What if he’s hurt...
A dozen scenarios run through my mind, most of which involve him bleeding out on the floor.
God, no.
I open the door.
Nico’s standing at the opaque windowswith his back to me, one hand braced against the glass. The other hand is dripping blood onto the floor. Shards of what used to be a coffee mug glitter across the rug like some kind of angry modern art installation.
“Mr. Rossi,” I try again.
He doesn’t turn around. “I’m fine. Go home, Ms. Dawson.”
His voice is dead. The kind of tone that says he’s absolutely not fine and we’re both going to pretend otherwise.
Nope. Not happening this time.
I don’t ask permission. I just turn on my heel, march back to my desk, and grab the first aid kit from the bottom drawer. Cressida mentioned it during my tour.
“Executives sometimes get paper cuts during intense contract negotiations,” she’d said with a straight face.
Right. Paper cuts. That’s definitely what this is.
When I return to his office, he still hasn’t moved.
“I saidgo home,” he repeats without looking at me. “The report can wait.”
“You know, I never really did take orders well,” I reply, stepping carefully over the shards. My heels crunch.
“Your whole job istaking orders,” he seethes.
“Yeah well, not tonight.” I grab his wrist.
He goes very, very still.
For a second I think he’s going to pull away. Tell me to get out. Fire me on the spot for insubordination or inappropriate touching or whatever excuse he wants to use.
Instead, he just lets me turn his hand over.
The cut runs across his palm, not deep but definitely bleeding.
“Sit,” I order, pointing at his desk chair.
“I’m fine,” he repeats.
“You’re bleeding. Sit down before you pass out and I have to explain to Callahan why your unconscious body is spilling blood all over the carper.”
His mouth twitches.
Did I just make him almost-smile?
