One kiss. On a Manhattan sidewalk. With an employee.
I am a grown man. A CEO. A founder of a billion-dollar tech firm. I’ve managed boardroom coups,hostile acquisitions, and billion-dollar breakdowns in the middle of international flights.
And somehow, it’s a woman nearly half my age and three floors below me who’s got me walking around like I need a goddamn cold shower and a therapist.
I make it until 11:03 AM before everything goes to hell. Because at at exactly 11:05AM, Emma Sinclair walks into the strategy meeting for reviewing Q3 projections, looking like she hasn't slept in days.
She's pale. There are dark circles under her eyes that even makeup can't completely hide. And when Carmen asks her a question about the market analysis, she takes a full five seconds to respond—which for Emma, who usually processes information at the speed of light, is concerning.
"Emma?" Carmen prompts gently. "The customer acquisition metrics?"
"Right. Sorry." Emma blinks, refocusing on her tablet. "CAC is trending at forty-two dollars, which is withinour projected range. LTV ratios support continued investment in paid channels."
The answer is correct, but her delivery is off. Flat. Like she's reading from a script instead of actually engaging with the data.
Logan catches my eye from across the table and raises an eyebrow. I respond with the slightest shake of my head.
Not now.
The meeting continues, but I'm only half-listening. The other half of my attention is on Emma, cataloging every detail that seems wrong.
She's not taking notes—Emma always takes notes.
She's barely touched her coffee—Emma lives on coffee.
And when David makes a terrible joke about market volatility, she doesn't even crack a smile—Emma laughs at everything, even when she's tryingnot to.
Something is off. And I fucking hate not knowing what it is.
"Alright," Carmen says, closing her laptop. "I think that covers everything. Emma, can you send me the updated deck by Wednesday?"
"Of course." Emma stands, gathering her things with jerky, distracted movements. "I'll have it to you by tomorrow."
“Friday is fine—"
"Tomorrow," Emma repeats firmly, then walks out before Carmen can argue.
The room empties, a slow exodus of voices and heels and muted Slack pings.
All except for Logan, who lingers in the doorway like a shark in tailored wool, arms crossed, that signature smirk of his already loaded and locked.
“So,” he drawls. “Want to talk about whatever the hell that was?”
“Nope.” I don’t look up.
“Come on. Emma’s looking like she mainlined anxiety for breakfast, and you look like you want to follow her out and throw your wallet at whatever’s hurting her.”
I glare at him. “Nothing happened.”
Logan’s brows shoot up. “That’s your ‘something absolutely happened but I’m going to deny it until I combust’ voice.”
“I don’t have a voice like that.”
He whistles. “Shit. You kissed her again, didn’t you?”
I say nothing.
Logan lets out a low laugh. “You kissed the strategist. The one with the legs and the big ideas and the ‘Donovan, you’re not as subtle as you think’ eyes.”
