“The thing where you’re about to snap and strangle a client.”
I inhale deeply, paste on a fake smile.
“Everything’s under control.”
Clara Adams, 29 — Sports Reporter
Perfect for the final round: smart, bold, used to handling egos the size of stadiums.
Clara studies him like she’s conducting an exclusive interview.
“If you could rewrite your athletic career, would you change anything?”
“Do all of you talk about work on dates?”
She laughs. He doesn’t.
And when she reaches out her hand, he shakes it purely out of obligation, then shifts in his chair like he’s begging the bell to ring.
It rings.
As participants stand and chat, I stay behind my desk with a strained smile.
Lila walks past.
“Well, at least he didn’t insult anyone.”
“Not openly.”
“Want me to bring him a coffee before the debriefing?”
“A muzzle would be better.”
I turn to look for him.
He’s still at table three, legs stretched out, arms crossed, gaze wandering like none of this concerns him.
Then his eyes meet mine.
One second.
Just one.
And I feel that unwelcome twist in my stomach again.
The room is almost empty now.
The candles are burning out, Lila and the staff are clearing the tables, and I’ve spent the past hour wondering why I didn’t go into gardening instead of relationship psychology.
“Becker. My office,” I say, aiming for neutral.
He lifts his gaze from the glass of water he was either emptying—or staring at out of boredom—and walks over with that infuriating calm of a man who fears absolutely nothing.
Not even my wrath.
I close the door behind him.
“Are you planning to explain what the hellthatwas?” I cross my arms to keep from punching him. My cream blazer tightens over my all-white outfit.
