Not across the table.
Beside him.
I swallow and sit.
So close our elbows might brush if either of us breathes too enthusiastically.
I’m in danger.
He slides a folder toward me. “Let’s begin.”
His voice is calm. Controlled. Focused.
I try to read.
I really do.
But he leans in to point at something and…
His cologne hits me first. Warm. Sharp. Clean. A mix that shouldn’t be legal.
Then his voice.
“This section,” he murmurs, “needs a stronger angle.”
I nod. Too fast. Too shaky.
“Are you listening?” he asks softly.
Oh, the IRONY.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He watches me. Very closely.
“Good,” he says quietly. “Because this part matters.”
I can’t breathe.
He shifts even closer, one hand braced on the table, his body angled toward mine like gravity is doing half the work.
“This partnership requires trust,” he says.
I swallow. “Professional trust.”
His eyes flick to my lips.
“No,” he says, voice low. “More than that.”
My heart stops.
He doesn’t touch me.
But his hand moves, slowly, hovering inches from mine on the table.
Not touching. Waiting.
A question.
