Hungry.
As for me…I’m seconds from pushing her against the car and forgetting every boundary we’ve spent two miserable weeks pretending to care about.
A door slams nearby—another couple leaving the restaurant, and immediately, we tear apart, breathing hard, foreheads almost touching.
Emma sighs softly, her lips just inches from my mouth. “Well, that was—“
“Inevitable,” I finish, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear, my thumb trailing her cheek. “And I don’t regret a second of it.”
“We work together,” she whispers.
“Iknow.”
“You’re my boss.”
“I’m quite aware of that, too.” I step back before I say something I can’t take back. “Get in the car, Emma.”
She lingers for a heartbeat—like she wants me to stop her again—then slides inside. The driver asks for her address, and she gives it—West Village, I note automatically.
Before the driver can pull away, I lean down to her window.
"Emma?"
She looks up at me, lips still swollen from our kiss, hazel eyes questioning.
"This conversation isn't over."
"I know." She touches her mouth. "But it should be."
"Probably." I step back. "But I don't think either of us wants it to be."
The car pulls away, takingher with it.
And I stand there on the sidewalk outside Ampersand, tie loosened, tasting her on my lips, admitting something I've been avoiding for weeks.
This isn't just attraction. And it damn sure is more than just unfinished business from Miami.
This is something that could actually fucking matter.
Something that’s starting to feel more and more worth the risk.
My phone buzzes.
Logan, of course.
LOGAN: So. That was interesting.
I type back.
ME: What was?
LOGAN: Watching you try not to eye-fuck your strategist for three straight hours
ME: I wish I knew another language to say ‘fuck off’ in. English isn’t enough at this point
LOGAN: "You've got it bad, Don. Like, really bad. Like, might actually do something stupid bad
I look up at the city lights, thinking about Emma's smile, her wit and brilliance, the softness of her body against mine.
