The press loves a villain, and I make an excellent one.
“Let them run it,” I say. “We’ve got bigger concerns. How’s the Larsson deal looking?”
We spend the next twenty minutes dissecting PR strategies for upcoming deals. Lottie leaves with her marching orders, and I return to the chaos of running a company.
My phone buzzes at nine forty-five. A message from HR:
Your new lead designer has arrived. Should I send her up?
I glance at the name on the hiring paperwork sitting on my desk. Bailey Rodgers. Twenty-eight. Impressive portfolio. She even came highly recommended from her previous firm. I’d barely glanced at her file during the final approval. I trust my hiring team to vet candidates thoroughly.
Give me ten minutes,I send back.
I finish the email I’m composing, make a note for my assistant about the investor call this afternoon, and straighten my tie out of habit. New hires always get the same speech: high expectations, higher standards, no room for mediocrity.
My phone buzzes in exactly nine minutes.
Sending her up now.
I stand, buttoning my suit jacket, and move to the window. I’ve always loved to watch the people below my building. Most of them see forty-four floors with my name on it and feel small. The smart ones see it and feel hungry. I’m watching a young woman argue with the security guard at the entrance when I hear the knock.
“Come in,” I call without turning.
I hear the door open and the soft click of heels on hardwood. I give it another beat, letting them absorb the view, the office, the casual display of power, before I turn.
And for a second, I think I must be imagining things.
It’s her.
The woman from the bar. The one whose laugh had unraveled something I’d thought was permanently locked away in my chest.
She stands in the doorway, frozen, her face cycling through the same shock I’m trying desperately to hide.
Those curves that had fit perfectly against me Friday night are now contained in a professional navy dress and blazer. Her darkhair is pulled back instead of tumbling over bare shoulders. But her eyes—warm brown, too expressive for her own good—are precisely the same.
Fuck.
Bailey Rodgers.
The new hire is the woman I fucked three nights ago.
Every muscle in my body locks down, years of practice controlling my reactions snapping into place. I can’t let her see that this matters.
“Ms. Rodgers,” I say, my voice coming out clipped. “Take a seat.”
She doesn’t move for a heartbeat, and then she straightens her spine.
“Mr. Williams,” she says, and hearing my name in the same voice that had gasped against my neck, does something unfortunate to my pulse.
She crosses to the chair a bit too stiffly. I return to my desk, putting a very necessary distance between us.
Up close, I can see the faint shadows under her eyes. She didn’t sleep well.Why?
“I reviewed your portfolio,” I say, which is partially true. I reviewed it weeks ago during the initial hiring process, before I knew who she was. “Your technical skills are adequate.”
Something flashes in her eyes. “Adequate.”
“Your design work is competent but painfully basic. You follow trends rather than setting them.”
