Say something. Anything.
“You should probably avoid crushing mugs,” I manage. My voice sounds weird. Breathless.
“Noted. But in my defense, I slammed my mug down. Maybe a bit too hard.”
“I’ll say.” I finish tying off the bandage and slide back. Put safe distance between us. “All done. Try not to bleed on anything important.”
I start gathering the first aid supplies. The wrappers. The bloody wipes.
“Bree.”
I stop.
He never calls me Bree. It’s always Ms. Dawson.
I turn back.
He’s still sitting in his chair, still watching me with those dark eyes. The bandage on his hand looks almost absurdly white against his olive skin.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
And just like that, my heart does a stupid little flip in my chest. Or maybe that’s my stomach.
Don’t do this to yourself.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Rossi.” I let the formality slam back into place because, well, I can’t do this, and I don’t want to get hurt. He’smy boss.
His expression shutters. “Go home, Ms. Dawson. It’s late.”
Back to the ice.
It’s what I want, isn’t it?
That’s what I keep telling myself.
“The report—” I begin.
“Can wait until morning,” he finishes.
“But you said—”
“I changed my mind.” His voice becomes dismissive. “Good night.”
I nod. “Good night, Mr. Rossi.”
I turn.
As I walk out, my heels crunch on glass. The sound echoes in the silent office. I reach the doorway.
Don’t look back.
Don’t you dare look back.
I look back.
He’s still sitting in his chair, staringdown at the white bandage on his hand like he’s never seen it before.
Then I’m out the door, past my desk, down the hall, through the glass entrance, and into the elevator bank. The main elevator arrives mercifully fast.
