“You shredded my resignation letter. ‘Healthy respect’ clearly isn’t your strong suit. And we all know you sleep like a vampire anyway.”
His brow furrows as he starts to ask, “Huh?” but I ignore him and keep going.
I cross out the line and write in the margin. “‘Standard business hours plus pre-approved overtime. Weekends by advance notice only. Submitted in writing. In triplicate. In person.’ Just to be sure, ya know?”
He comes around the desk to read over my shoulder, and just like that, he’s too close again. I can feel the heat from his body, still warm from the kitchen work. I’m honestly kind of amazed that he even needed an oven for tonight’s little escapade—he throws off enough heat in his own right that I’m sizzling like a duck breast myself.
Is that a Bastian thing? A male thing? A medical issue he should probably get scoped out? A medical issueIshould probably get scoped out?
Am I distracting myself from the fact that said heat is doing strange things to my insides?
The world may never know.
“That’s not how project launches work,” he says with a scowl.
“Tough, ‘cause that’s how this one’s going to work.” I keep scribbling in red pen, doing my best to ignore how his proximity makes my handwriting shakier.
His hand comes down on the page next to mine, index finger pointing to another clause. His sleeve brushes my arm, and I have to focus very hard on not reacting.
“This section about travel?—”
“How kind of you to put it out! I was just getting…” I draw a huge red X through it. “… there. Ah, much better.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Oh, Mr. Hale, I assure you that this is a very serious and formal process. ‘Travel’ can just mean so many things to so many people. Howmuchtravel? Howmanydays’ notice? What class of accommodation and why is it ‘first class, all champagne costs included’?”
“Someone’s in a mood tonight.”
“‘Someone’ doesn’t have a damn thing to lose,” I fire back.
Finally, he lets that smile steal all the way across his face. Between the wry grin and the floppy hair, he looks more approachable than I’ve ever seen him before. It suits him.
“You’ve gotten very bold now that you have leverage.”
I turn my head to look up at him properly, which is a mistake, because he’s closer than I thought. From here, I see that his eyesaren’t only blue. They also have tiny flecks of gray, like static on an old TV screen. Snow on a frozen lake.
“More like that I’ve gotten very devil-may-care now that I’m dying.”
His face transforms again. I’m almost giddy at learning that he is in fact capable of displaying normal human emotions. Tonight alone, I’ve seen a smile, a scowl, a laugh—and now, what is this? Is thatpity?Sympathy?!
I shudder and turn away. Thanks but no thanks. I don’t need any of that. Least of all from him.
“I’m not actually dying,” I clarify in a mumble. “Just being dramatic.”
We work through the contract line by line, negotiating each clause with an attention to detail that makes me understand why he’s successful. He pushes back on some changes, accepts others, and occasionally offers alternatives that are actually better than what I proposed. Our hands brush when we both reach for the same page. Our shoulders touch when he leans in to read a section.
“The confidentiality clause is too broad,” I say as we flip to yet another section. “It basically says I can never speak about anything that happens at Hale Hospitality ever again.”
“That’s the point of confidentiality.”
I squint up at him. “What are you so afraid I’ll reveal? Your secret hatred of donuts?”
“The fact that I offered a woman a million dollars to stay at a job she hates, among other things.”
“You’re right,” I say. “That would be terrible for your reputation. People might think you actually have a heart.”
“Fortunately, we both know better than that.”
