I inhale once, slow and controlled.
Because Emma did everything she’s supposed to do as a good employee.
She hits her deadlines, analyzes the numbers above and beyond the call of duty,
As for me? I should be thinking about projections, timelines, my newest investor Castellano’s likely objections.
Instead, I’m thinking about the neckline of those little dresses shewears at work.
What she’s going to wear tonight.
How I’m supposed to sit across from her for two hours without imagining pushing her against the nearest wall.
We step outside into the warm June air, Manhattan alive around us.
Logan checks his phone. “Carmen and Emma are at the restaurant.”
My pulse ticks once, hard.
Emma’s already there.
Waiting.
Working.
Looking the way she looked last Friday when she leaned against the table and asked which side of the line we were on.
I adjust my tie again.
“Don," Logan says, tone suddenly more serious. "You sure you can handle tonight?”
“Yes, dickhead. How many times do I have to say that I’m good? I’m in control.”
“Maybe about three more times before I believe you.”
I don’t even try.
Because the truth—the thing I won’t say aloud—is that control hasn’t meant much these last few days.
Not when I spent the weekend thinking about her mouth instead of the multimillion-dollar deal I’m supposed to close tonight.
Logan claps a hand on my shoulder. “Good luck pretending you’re not obsessed. I’ll back you up if you start drooling at the table.”
“I don’t drool,” I grind out.
And I’m not about to start now.
Tonight, I need to be the CEO, the man who built an empire through willpower alone.
I exhale once, hard, squaring my shoulders and stepping toward therestaurant.
Time to pretend again.
At least for a few hours.
And it’s just my luck that the site of tonight’s dinner—midtown Manhattan relic for the wealthy, Ampersand—is already buzzing when I arrive, complete with wall to wall white linen, glass facades, and hushed voices.
The kind of place where your reputation is measured in digits and discretion.
