She deserves someone who knows how to handle her fire. Someone who understands the difference between soft and weak. Someone who knows that a woman like Ruby doesn’t need taming, she needs matching.
She glances over her shoulder toward the street, just for a moment, and her eyes catch mine.
Her whole expression changes. Surprise, heat, and something she tries to hide badly.
The guy follows her gaze and notices me.
He straightens.
I don’t break eye contact with either of them.
Ruby swallows and turns away, heading inside quickly like she’s escaping a crime scene.
Fine. Run if you want.
I’m not letting her vanish again.
I continue walking, calm, controlled, businesslike, because while Ifeelterritorial, I neveractimpulsively.
Not unless I choose to.
Inside the lobby, she’s already in the elevator. The doors close between us before I can get to her, but it doesn’t matter.
I don’t chase elevators.
I take the next one.
Up on the magazine floor, I head straight to my new office, ignoring the way people scramble to get out of my path. They whisper as I pass, low enough to think I don’t hear, loud enough that I do.
“Is that him?”
“The new owner?”
“He’s ridiculously hot…”
“Not my type.”
“You’re lying.”
I shut the door to my office behind me and lean back against it for a moment, letting the quiet settle.
Then I pull out my phone.
I pull up her profile again.
I shouldn’t, but I do.
Her photo is terrible, but charming. Her smile is forced, her hair messy, but she looks younger, warmer, and brighter.
Last night, she was fire. Today, she’s steel under panic. And in the café?
She was right on the edge of giving in.
I can work with that.
I sit at my desk, pull out my laptop, and type a note into my personal file:
Objective:
