I should be strategizing. Planning my defense. Instead I’m watching Bree through the glass walls of my office.
She’s at her desk, typing something, her brow furrowed in concentration. The afternoon light catches the warm tones in her skin, and I notice she’s wearing that navy blazer again. The one that makesher look professional and put together and completely untouchable.
Which is good. Because I can’t touch her.
Won’ttouch her.
Shouldn’t even be looking at her.
But I am.
I’ve been looking at her all week. Noticing things I have no business noticing. The way she straightens her spine when someone approaches her desk. The cinnamon lip balm she reapplies around three PM every day.
The way she watched me last Friday when I was reading that little girl’s letter, like she could see straight through the impenetrable facade I’ve spent years constructing.
I turn away from the window and force myself to focus on the crisis at hand.
Thursday morning I draft an email to our major donors. It takes an hour to write three paragraphs explaining that the leaked document lacks context, that our business model is sound, that the charity program is a priority not a loss leader.
I read it over.
It sounds corporate and cold.
My finger hovers over the send button and something stops me. Some instinct that says this isn’t going to work.
I save it to my drafts folder instead.
I need coffee.
I stand up, grab my empty mug, and nearly collide with Bree in my doorway.
“Sorry,” she says, stepping back. “I was just bringing you these contracts from Larissa.”
She hands me a folder. Our fingersdon’t touch but I catch a hint of her scent. The same perfume that was all over my body that Saturday morning...
I take the folder without a word.
She nods once and returns to her desk.
I watch her go. The pencil skirt hugs her curves in a way that makes my brain short circuit for about three seconds before I remember I’m supposed to be a fucking CEO.
Supposed to be fixing this PR disaster.
I close my office door, sit back down, and stare at the draft email on my screen.
It’s terrible.
I know it’s terrible.
But I also don’t know how to make it better without sounding weak. Without admitting vulnerability. Without giving Martin Hale ammunition to use against me in the board meeting.
I leave it in drafts and focus on other work instead.
Around ten AM, I head to the break room for more coffee.
Paloma is there, looking exhausted.
“Any progress on finding the leak source?” I ask.
