“Disappointing, I know.” I lean on the rail. “I left my cape in dry cleaning.”
Her eyes flick down my suit—slow. Assessing. “Yeah. I can see the cape outline.”
“Emma.”
“I’m kidding. Mostly.”
A gust moves between us.
Goosebumps rope down her forearm, and I shove my hands in my pockets instead of offering my jacket—being a worse man than I have the luxury right now of being.
Because boundaries.
“I meant what I said in there,” I tell her. “You earned this job. You’re here on merit.”
“And you earned your little secret identity. Though for the record, learning the guy from the beach is also my boss? Not a plot twist I saw coming.”
“Likewise. Walking into my own reception and finding the woman who hijacked my brain in Miami standing by the charcuterie? Not on tonight’s run-of-show.”
She huffs a laugh. “Good. Because the charcuterie was underseasoned.”
“A tragedy.”
We both look out over the lights for a breath that isn’t quite long enough.
“Okay,” she says, business-like. “So, it’s rules for us, then.”
I blink. “I like rules. Humor me.”
“Okay.” Her pointed chin lifts. “Rule one? We pretend Miami never happened.”
“No Miami,” I agree, jaw flexing. ”Got it.”
“Rule two,” she continues, “no preferential treatment. I report to Carmen, not you. We keep conversations in hallways under sixty seconds and fully clothed.”
“Harsh but fair.”
“Rule three: names. At work, you’re Mr. Titan—as Marvel Comics as that sounds. Outside of work… if outside of work ever exists… you’re—”
“Don,” Isupply, and my voice comes out low enough that her pupils flare.
She swallows. “And me?”
“Emma. Or ‘Em’ if you like.”
“Emma’s fine.” Her gaze drops to my mouth, then snaps up. “And one more thing.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I…didn’t ghost you in Miami because I didn’t like you,” she says, the words a hair above a whisper. “I left because we seemed on the same page. No names. No mess.”
“It wasn’t simple.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
Silence expands—elastic. Hungry.
"Agreed."
