Nola looks up when I enter, and something bright and cheerful crosses her face.
“Good morning, Mr. Asher,” she says, her voice carrying that hint of huskiness that’s been haunting my dreams. “I hope you don’t mind my being in your office this early. I wanted to get started on organizing these quarterly reports. They were a bit...” She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. “...scattered.”
The subtle critique of my organizational skills should irritate me. Instead, I find myself fascinated by the way her mouth forms the words.
“Ms. Vance.” My voice comes out rougher than intended, almost a growl. I clear my throat. “You’re in my chair.”
She blinks, then rises immediately. “Of course. Sorry.”
I move past her, hyperaware of how close our bodies come to touching as we navigate the limited space behind the desk. The faint scent of something clean and subtle drifts from her skin. I grip the back of my chair to keep from reaching for her.
“I’ve sorted the reports by quarter and flagged the areas where there seem to be discrepancies,” she continues, seemingly oblivious to the effect she’s having on me. “The Thorne Industries contract also needs a few minor corrections on pages four and seventeen. I’ve marked them for your review.”
I sink into my chair, the leather still warm from her body. The thought sends an unwelcome jolt of heat through me.
“Fine.” I pull the stack of papers toward me, needing to establish control over something, even if it’s just the positioning of documents on my desk. “Any calls?”
“Two. Mr. Davis confirmed the Blackridge Capital meeting is set for Thursday at 10 AM. Virtual attendance, as usual. And Keystone Ventures’ legal team had a question about section 8.3 of the contract. I told them you’d call back this morning.” She hands me a yellow sticky note with the contact information, her fingers brushing mine briefly in the exchange.
Even that minor contact is enough to make my pulse jump.
“Good.” I don’t look up. “Now that I’m here, you can work at the desk over there.” I nod toward the smaller workspace in the corner, the assistant’s station that’s been empty more often than not these past twelve months.
Nola moves to the desk without comment. I force my attention to the reports in front of me, to the numbers and projections that have always made perfect sense to me. But the numbers blur together today, meaningless shapes on the page. My focus keeps drifting to the corner of the room.
To her.
Focus, Asher. For fuck’s sake.
I’ve built an empire on my ability to concentrate. To shut out distractions. To focus on what matters with laser precision. And now I can’t even read a simple report because a woman is sitting twenty feet away, doing nothing more provocative than breathing.
For the next three hours, I accomplish exactly nothing.
I stare at the same page of projections, reading and re-reading without comprehension. I pick up the phone to return the call to Keystone, but set it back down without dialing, suddenly unsure of what I was going to say. I type half an email to Davis before deleting it and starting over.
All while hyperaware of every move Nola makes. I hate this.
Hate the loss of control, the inability to focus, the constant awareness of her presence in my space. Hate how my body responds to her without my permission, like some basic animal part of me has seized the controls from the civilized man I’ve spent years constructing.
“Would you like me to bring these contracts to Keystone tomorrow for signatures?” she asks, breaking the silence. “It might be faster than a courier service.”
The thought of her leaving the compound—even temporarily—sends an irrational spike of panic through me.
“No.”
She looks up, surprised by my sharp tone.
“I mean,” I moderate my voice with effort, “that won’t be necessary. We’ll use the secure courier as usual.”
Nola nods, accepting the decision without argument. “Of course.”
We lapse back into silence, broken only by the scratch of her pen and the ticking of the clock on my desk. Eleven thirty becomes noon. Noon stretches toward one. The longer she sits there, the more I resent her. Not for anything she’s done, but for what she’s doing to me without even trying.
Franklin appears at 1:15 with lunch, a perfectly grilled salmon on a bed of greens, similar to last night’s dinner. He sets the trays on my desk without comment, his eyes flicking briefly between Nola and me before he withdraws.
“Join me,” I say to Nola, the words coming out more like an order than an invitation.
She rises, moving to the chair across from my desk.
