She rises from the folding chair situated across from my desk, takes one look at my expression, and offers me an apologetic smile.
“Morning,” she sing-songs weakly. “Sorry—it’s just that I thought we could get started early today, since I know you’re only here until noon. And Noah saw me waiting out in the hallway and said I could just come inside to wait for you.”
I shake off the shock of her sudden appearance and stalk past her. The scent of her delicate floral perfume wafts over me as I move around my desk and take a seat.
“Trent isn’t my secretary,” I grumble.
“Right.”
“Get started early on what, exactly?”
“What?” She’s staring at me oddly, her emerald eyes even bigger than usual.
The blush has returned, too, but I’m finding it hard to believe I’ve already managed to annoy her that much.
“Why are you here in my office at the crack of dawn?”
She glances down at her watch. “It’s eight-thirty. Thirty-seven, actually. Sunrise was at six-thirty-four this morning.”
Weirdly, the urge to smile at her pedantic correction overtakes me. I manage to keep a straight face, but I really don’t think I’ve ever met anyone else who is as fixated on exact timing as I am.
“What do you need from me, Lila?”
The blush deepens. Her spine straightens.
I really don’t understand her.
“We should discuss logistics, of course,” she replies. “For the gala. It’s the first major event in the Save A Hero series.”
“Right. The FDNY Charity Gala. This Saturday.”
“Yes, that’s the one. And, if you’ll recall, I’ll be your platonic-professional date, so that we can show the public how great Station 47’s captain is!”
“Platonic,” I repeat, and the word tastes like restraint.
Lila nods too quickly. “Yes. Platonic. Extremely platonic.”
She’s standing in front of my desk like she belongs there—like my office is just another set she can rearrange. Her skirt is crisp. Her lipstick is subtle. Her hair smells faintly like something expensive and dangerous.
“You’re aware,” I say, “that the city doesn’t care who you are when they want a villain.”
Her expression sobers. “I’m aware.”
“And you’re still volunteering to stand beside me.”
“It’s my job,” she says—then softer, almost resentful of herself—“and because you’re not a villain.”
The air tightens.
I should sit down. I don’t.
I should look away. I don’t.
My gaze drops to her mouth—just a flicker—
and her lips part like her body understands before her brain can catch up.
One step.
