IT’S LONG-LASTING.
FOR WORK.
SCIENCE.
I lock my phone and shove it in my bag before anyone else can bully me through the screen.
I pull on my jacket, straighten my skirt, and fix my blouse.
I’m not going.
I take three steps toward the elevator.
I’m still not going.
I press the elevator button.
I’m definitely not going.
The elevator doors slide open.
…Okay, maybe I’m going for a little while.
I step in, riding down to the lobby as my pulse tap-dances in my throat.
“This is a bad idea,” I mutter as I walk out of the building. “It’s a terrible idea. Catastrophic even.”
The café is right across the street. I can see him through the window, sitting at a corner table, his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up again, and he’s reading something on his phone like he didn’t just level my entire career with one night and one look.
He looks relaxed and comfortable, like he expected me to show up.
I pause at the curb and breathe in the cold air, trying to force clarity into my skull. He’s a billionaire, and he’s my boss. He’s supposed to be an interview subject, not a man I keep remembering with my hands shaking and my thighs pressed tightly together.
I can still feel the weight of him on me; I can feel the way he held me tightly. The way he…
No.
Stop.
Focus.
I square my shoulders and cross the street, hating how my stomach flips when he looks up and sees me through the window.
His lips tilt into a slow, warm smile.
Damn it.
He stands when I walk in, because of course he does. Of course, he has manners, and of course, he looks at me like I’m someone he shouldn’t touch but fully intends to.
“Ruby,” he says softly, pulling out the chair across from him. “You came.”
I sit down before my legs betray me. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is to me,” he says, his voice low.
My breath stumbles. “It’s just a follow-up interview.”
“Mhm.” He watches me too closely. “Let’s call it that.”
