He wasn’t conventionally handsome. That was the initial assessment. His features were too sharp for that, too precise. Everything about him suggested intention. Even his stillness felt chosen. Dark hair, cut short, a hint of gray at the temples that looked earned rather than premature. His mouth rested in a neutral line that didn’t soften unless he decided it should.
His eyes were the problem.
Gray, yes—but not flat. They shifted when he thought, not away, just… sideways, like he was checking angles I couldn’t see. When he looked at me, it wasn’t consuming. It was selective. Like attention was a resource he allocated carefully.
I recognized that instinct.
“You’re staring,” he said mildly.
I blinked. “Occupational hazard.”
“Mine or yours?”
“Both,” I said, refusing to give any ground. “You act like someone who doesn’t expect to be challenged.”
That got a reaction. Subtle, but real. A slight lift of his brow. Interest, not offense.
“You look like someone deciding whether it’s worth it,” he replied, picking up the gauntlet I’d thrown down.
Touché.
I pushed off the counter and moved toward the table, not to create distance but to test whether he’d follow.
He didn’t. That should have reassured me. Instead, it irritated something low and unfamiliar.
“Flint thinks you’re manipulating me,” I said, casually, like it was an aside.
“I know.”
“Interesting.”
“Is it?” he sounded mild.
“Maybe.” I turned back to face him and leaned against the table. “You’re not denying it.”
“I’m denying his framing,” Brewster said. “Not the influence.”
Head canted, I studied him. I had his interest, but he guarded his expression. “You think influence is neutral?”
“No,” he said. “I think it’s inevitable.”
“And attraction?” I asked before I could stop myself.
There it was. The word, dropped between us like a piece of evidence I hadn’t decided whether to submit.
Brewster didn’t react the way I expected. No smile. No deflection. No calculated reassurance. He considered it.
“That depends,” he said finally. “On who’s defining it.”
That answer was… irritatingly good.
“I am,” I said. “Right now.”
He held my gaze. Long enough that my pulse picked up. Not because he moved closer—but because he didn’t. “What’s your definition?” he asked.
I thought about lying. About reframing. About turning it into something clever and safe.
Instead, I said, “Attention without urgency. Competence without apology. Sensuality without grossness.”
