“For your information…” I lean back in my chair, deadpan. “She kissed me.”
“Oh, well that changes everything,” he says, sauntering further into the room. “I assume it was a very dry, emotionless, HR-approved kiss.”
“It wasa lapse, I admit. A step back.”
“A step back you’ve been replaying in high-def in that thick head of yours?”
“I’ve got a company to run, Logan. I don’t have time to obsess over a kiss.”
“Suuuure. Which explains the way you’ve been staring at her like she’s a proprietary algorithm you can’t crack.” He drops into the seat across from me. “Donovan. You’re losing your grip. And from the look of it, so is she.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I know.”
“You want to know what to do? Try talking to her. Preferably using words. Preferably soon.”
“And say what? ‘Hey Emma, you’re looking a little peaked—was it the kiss or the fact that my dick can’t stay in one place when you’re around?’”
He snorts. “God, you’re rusty at this. Start with empathy. End with honesty. Sprinkle in a little Donovan Titan custom charm.”
I shoot him a look.
“What?” he says, completely unbothered. “You’re basically the sexual fantasy of half the boardroom. Use it.”
I shake my head. “This is a disaster.”
“No,” Logan says, standing. “This is your first real feeling in a decade. Stop treating it like a liability.”
He’s gone before I can formulate a comeback—probably for the best, since I’m one pointed comment away from hurling a paperweight.
But damn it, he’s right.
Again.
Unable to get Logan’s words out of my head, I try my best to formulate a plan. A plan to address this situation head on.
But two hours later, no progress has been made. I’ve read the same email five times.
Correction: I’ve pretended to readit.
What I’ve actually been doing is obsessing over camera feed twelve, which just so happens to cover the thirty-seventh floor break room. Where Emma is. Again.
I’m still figuring out how the hell a head of a company can even defend doing the shit that I’ve done.
Maybe I can start a defense by pulling my newest hire aside and saying something like:
“It’s not my fault. It’s yours—your responsibility for being so damn gorgeous and funny and hardworking that it drives me insane.”
“It’s a reflex. After Miami, my tongue keeps trying to revert back to its original position between your thighs.”
“And yes, I am sorry for the dirty things I said to you after the dinner meeting. It’s a clinical thing. I plan on taking medications, and possibly getting injections because every time I’m around you, I want to take off your clothes and worship every inch of your soft skin with my mouth.”
Taking another peek at the cameras, I tell myself it’s strategy—intel, that I’m just gathering information before making a move. But my secretary Margaret’s knowing side-eyes and conveniently timed coffee refills suggest otherwise.
By four PM, I’ve lost the ability to rationalize. With the only plan I can think of forming, I leave my office and head the three floors down, half-hoping she’s still there.
She is.
Back turned, shoulders tight, she’s cradling a mug of pure black coffee like it’s the last remaining source of warmth in her world when I step inside.
