“Fine,” I say, possibly louder than necessary. “Next topic, Valentine’s Day, what does it mean to you?”
His eyes lock onto mine, slow and consuming. “It means the night I met you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “This is not productive.”
“It’s extremely productive for me.”
“Jaxon!”
He moves again, one step closer, then another. The air shifts, it's warm and electric, like a storm building behind my ribcage.
“Last night wasn’t supposed to happen,” I say, my voice unsteady. “It was a mistake.”
“Do you regret it?” he asks quietly.
My mouth opens. No sound comes out. He sees the truth anyway.
“I don’t,” he says. “Not for one second.”
I stand abruptly because sitting makes me too easy to corner. “I should go.”
“You’re not finished.”
“Yes, I am.”
His hand brushes my wrist; not grabbing, not controlling, just enough to stop me. The touch sends a bolt of heat through my entire body.
“Ruby,” he says, low and certain. “One night wasn’t enough.”
I suck in a breath. “You have to stop.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re my boss now.”
“I didn’t know who you were,” he says. “But now that I do, I’m not going to pretend last night didn’t mean something.”
“It didn’t,” I lie.
He steps closer, close enough to feel his breath. “Look me in the eyes and tell me that again.”
I do. I try. I fail.
Silence stretches between us, heavy and hungry.
Finally, he speaks.
“We’re not done,” he says, his voice soft but unbreakable. “I’m not done with you.”
I swallow hard. “I’m leaving now.”
“Ruby…”
“No.” My voice cracks. “If I stay, something will happen, and we can’t afford that.”
He watches me like every cell in his body wants to argue, but he lets me go.
I open the door, step into the hallway, and exhale shakily.
