“You don’t like that I won’t take your advice,” he says.
“I don’t like that you pretend you’re not listening when you are,” I say.
His eyes flare.
“Who says I’m listening?” he asks.
“You already changed the route,” I say. “Your radio beeped before he came in. You sent the order while we were arguing.”
He stares at me, then laughs once, low.
“Stay out of my head, Raina,” he says.
“Stay out of mine,” I shoot back.
We’re too close by then, bodies angled toward each other, shoulders almost touching. The screens paint his face in cold light. It fades nothing.
He reaches out. His hand catches a loose piece of my hair, tucks it behind my ear.
“You’re too sharp for your own safety,” he says.
“You hired me for that.”
“Yes,” he says. “I did.”
The first time he kisses me is weeks later.
The house is quiet. A storm presses at the windows. We’re alone in his office, standing over a table full of maps and sheets. I’m pointing at a printout of an account chain tied to an off-book shipment, and he stops listening halfway through my sentence.
“Raina,” he says.
I look up.
“Yes?” I say.
His hand comes up. His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth.
“You talk until your lips are raw,” he says. “Do you ever stop?”
“Not yet,” I say.
He leans in.
He doesn’t rush it. His mouth meets mine in a steady, focused press. Warm. Certain. It isn’t gentle, but it isn’t cruel, either. It’s a claim, clear and simple.
My breath leaves my chest in one long wave. I grab his shirt to stay upright. He deepens the kiss, hand sliding into my hair, the other braced at my hip.
When we pull apart, the room feels new.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say.
“You kissed me back,” he says.
“Yes.”
“So we’re both guilty,” he says.
“Of what?” I ask.
