He shifted his weight then—just enough movement to reset the space between us. Not closer. Not farther. Intentional.
“You need to decide something,” Brewster went on. “If they greenlight this—and I think they will—you don’t get to improvise. You don’t get to go on instinct alone. You’ll have to be deliberate.”
“I’m always deliberate,” I shot back.
A single eyebrow lifted. “Mallory. You’re precise. Not always deliberate. There’s a difference. Deliberation will follow a set script, keeping the target in mind without improvisation or light bulb moments.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then stopped. Annoyingly, he wasn’t wrong.
“And,” he added, “if they don’t greenlight it, you still need a plan. Because sitting here isn’t getting us any closer.”
I felt that one like a hand to the sternum.
“So,” I said slowly, “this is the part where you tell me what to do?”
“No,” he replied. Immediate. Firm. “This is the part where I ask what youwantto do—and then I tell you what the risks are. We discuss the pros and cons, then we workshop the plan until we both get what we want.”
The air shifted again. Subtle. Electric.
“And if I decide I want to push anyway?” I asked.
“Then I’ll tell you exactly how far you can go before it stops being leverage and starts being self-sabotage.”
My pulse spiked. “You sound very confident.”
“I am,” he said. Then, almost casually, “If you’re going to challenge me, I’d prefer you do it with your eyes open, because mine will be Mallory. They will be open and on you.”
Meaning upon double meaning layered in those words. The way his pupils dilated and his nostrils flared suggested he was nowhere near as unaffected as he sounded. The hammer of my pulse thundered in my ears again. The provocative language and challenge, even his calm, controlled, and absolute manner beckoned to me.
What would it take to make this man let go?
Before I could respond, he glanced past me, toward the hall. “You’ve eaten?”
I blinked. “That’s your pivot?”
“Yes.”
“You’re serious.”
“You think better when you’re fed,” he said. “Right now, you’re running on caffeine, adrenaline, and spite. That’s not sustainable.”
I huffed a laugh. “You forgot stubbornness.”
“That’s the constant,” he agreed and winked.
He stepped back, giving me space to move—or not. “Kitchen,” he said. “There’s food. And we should talk before the phone rings again.”
“And if I say no?”
His eyes flicked back to mine. Something unreadable passed through them—interest, maybe. Or approval.
“Then I’ll assume you’re not ready to hear what I think,” he said evenly. “But I don’t believe that’s true.”
I hated how much that worked.
I grabbed my phone off the dresser. “You’re buying,” I said. “Metaphorically.”
“Fair,” Brewster said. “But you’re bringing the agenda.”
