I shrugged. “I’ve done harder things.” Like sitting in this damn safe house while everyone else chasedmystory.
“Hmm.” The way he hummed that sound sent a small, unwelcome shiver down my spine. We sat there for another beat, too close, the glow of the laptop washing his face in soft light.
As much as it would pain me to admit it, I’d enjoyed the past couple of hours. Enjoyed… him.
When he finally leaned back, the space he left behind felt noticeable. Charged.
“I think we sleep on this, then finalize in the morning,” Brewster said. “You will want to run the timing of the uploads through the network team, the social media manager, and the response team, set up the distribution path, and platforms, as well as who touches it and who doesn’t…”
“I thought I’d send a message to Brandon in marketing, mention that my network share is down a little and could he do me a favor. Maybe cherry pick some of my political pieces that aren’t too controversial and get them recirculating."
One arm settled along the back of my chair, Brewster studied me. “Then he just magically picks these?”
“No,” I said slowly. “He goes through and does a keyword search in the archives, pulls up a few, then flags them to send tome and asks if I have a preference and I pick one or two that I like and…”
I gave a little air wave.
“All natural, very normal. Network and Flint see you wanting to stay relevant and in front of your ratings, and he…”
“Sees I was instrumental in choosing the message I want to send.”
Rubbing a finger against his lips slowly, Brewster nodded. The five o’clock shadow on his face had rapidly turned into something a lot rougher and gave his square jaw a far more rugged appearance.
“You are a dangerous woman, Mallory McBryan.”
“Thank you.” I deadpanned.
“Send the email in the morning, get it started…”
“So that’s tomorrow.” I didn’t look away from him. “What’s tonight?”
His gaze flicked back to me, steady and unreadable.
“Tonight,” he said, “we let everything settle. You did just get his message today.”
I nodded, even though part of me already hated the waiting.
As we stood, our chairs scraped softly against the floor. He reached past me to close the laptop, his hand brushing my wrist in the process—just barely. The contact lingered longer than necessary.
Not enough to be a mistake.
Too much to be nothing.
I met his eyes.
He didn’t look away.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
The office felt smaller, the air thickening as if the space between us had developed its own gravity. He was close enough now that I could see the faint notch in his lower lip, the subtle tension in his jaw where restraint lived. My awareness narrowedto him—the heat of his arm still along the back of my chair, the quiet steadiness of his breathing.
I didn’t lean in.
Neither did he.
But the distance between us closed anyway—an unconscious drift, like two bodies pulled into the same orbit. His gaze dropped, just briefly, to my mouth. My breath caught, shallow and traitorous. I could feel the moment tipping, the precise second where choice became impulse.
His hand tightened on the chair behind me.
