Ransome’s coffee is one hundred and fifty-nine degrees.
Not a degree more, not a degree less.
I know this because I check every morning. I pour it from the paper cup into the matte black mug I steam in the dishwasher so the temperature doesn’t drop. No paper cups, no thermoses—those are beneath him. Just hot, strong, perfect.
His schedule is waiting on his desk, centered to the millimeter. The blinds are drawn, the A/C set to frigid, everything exactly as it should be.
I turn and check my appearance in the dark reflection of the inner window. I’m in a mustard yellow dress with black buttons. The yellow makes my olive skin look sun-kissed and my dark hair pop, and the buttons keep things formal.
He won’t comment, of course. He never does. But sometimes, his jaw ticks, or his eyes flicker, or his silence sharpens just enough for me to know he’s noticed.
And sometimes, like yesterday, he materializes out of nowhere to crash my date and make me feel things that don’t have a name or a place in a proper office setting like this. Not that that stops me from feeling those things.
I glance at the wall clock. Ten seconds until the office floor outside shifts from a murmur to a performance. Nine seconds until the chain of“Good morning, Mr. Rozanov”s ripple down the hall like dominos. Eight seconds until the only sound is the clomp of his shoes on marble.
My palms are damp around the mug. My thighs press together beneath my desk. God help me, I’m nervous, like I’m about to face a firing squad—except this firing squad is six foot three, broad-shouldered, and the sexiest man I’ve ever met.
The dominos start to fall. The footsteps draw closer. The surface of the coffee trembles like the water cup in the Jeep fromJurassic Park.
And then he’s here.
“Good morning, Mr. Rozanov!” I squeak as soon as he darkens the doorway. “Your coffee, just like you like it.”
Ransome takes the mug. Turns his back to me. Take a sip. Walks to his desk, looks down at his schedule. Another sip.
Stares out the window. Another sip.
Some days, he likes to talk over the schedule as it sits in front of him on the desk. It’s almost like he’s making sure I know what’s on it, like a pop quiz. For that reason, I mentally memorize every hour of his day so I can answer any question he comes up with on the spot. No flinching, no second guessing, no mistakes.
But other times, he is quiet. And that’s my cue to leave. Today is one of those days.
“Let me know if you need anything else, Mr. Rozanov.”
I turn to walk out but just before I reach the door, he stops me.
“Amara.”
I freeze. He never calls me by my first name. I turn slowly. “Yes, sir?”
“Sit.”
I sit.
Meanwhile, my heart is pounding again, loud enough I can hear it in my ears. My mouth is dry. My brain is racing like a train towards a broken bridge.
Shit, shit, shit.
Ransome moves the schedule to the side, indicating that whatever this is, it has nothing to do with lunch preferences or his meeting with his father or his dry cleaning.
I hold my breath as he steeples his hands, his stony eyes locked on me.
I don’t move. I don’t even blink. Hell, I’m not entirely sure I’m breathing as the seconds pass like years while I wait for him to say something.
“Do you go on a lot of dates, Amara?”
There it is again, my name coming from his mouth like a foreign word. A forbidden word. A word that both excites and terrifies me because it can’t be without a catch.
“Er, no. Well, yes. But not often. I mean, sometimes. Rarely, really.”
