The sound of the door opening nearly sends me out of my chair.
Menlow walks in carrying a folder, looking just as surprised to see me as I am to see him.
“Burning the midnight oil?” he asks.
I glance at the clock. 8:47 PM. Not quite midnight, but close enough.
“Getting ahead on next week’s assignments.”
“Marcus gave you more work today?”
“He dropped these off this afternoon. I figured I’d make a dent while I’m here.”
He sets his folder on his desk and opens a drawer. “You’ve been at it for twelve hours.”
“I’m aware.”
“That’s not sustainable.”
“Neither is falling behind. Besides, you’re here this late.”
“I came back for board prep materials,” he says, pulling out a thick binder. “But since we’re both here, we might as well leave together when you’re done.”
“You don’t have to wait. I can call a car.”
“We live in the same building. It’s practical.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. He has a point. A logical, reasonable point that I can’t dispute without sounding petty.
“Fine. Give me another hour.”
He settles into his desk and opens his laptop. The click of his keyboard joins the mechanical noise of the building’s ventilation system. We work in parallel silence, two stubborn people who refuse to quit before the other.
I try to focus on my file.Trybeing the operative word.
Because now that we’re here, in this cramped space all alone, I’m all too aware of him.
He’s removed his jacket and draped it over his chair. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms I shouldn’t be noticing. His tie hangs loose around his collar. A few strands of hair have fallen across his forehead, and he keeps pushing them back with an absent gesture.
He looks rumpled. Human. Less like the polished CEO who tricked me into marriage and more like a man who works too hard because he doesn’t know how to stop.
I drag my attention back to my screen. The words refuse to cooperate. My brain is fried from twelve hours of contracts, clauses, and corporate terminology.
“Done.”
His voice cuts through my haze. I look up to find him closing his laptop and pushing back from his desk.
“Already?”
“I work fast when I have motivation.” He stands and stretches, lifting his arms above his head. His back arches. His shirt pulls against his chest, and I catch a glimpse of his flat stomach where the fabric rides up.
I snap my gaze back to my monitor. Heat floods my cheeks.
“You finished?” he asks.
“Almost.” My voice comes out too high, and I have to clear my throat before I add, “Just wrapping up.”
I stare at my screen without seeing it. Every nerve in my body is firing. This is ridiculous. He stretched. People stretch. It doesn’t mean anything.
