Apparently he does, because he sips. And his lipspart in surprised delight. “Oh wow. That’s—smooth. Smoky. But sweet?”
I can’t help but smile. “Glendronach, 21 years. Rich, layered. Pairs beautifully with pasta.”
“You sound like you’re pitching me a campaign.”
“Habit.”
We eat. We drink. We work—but the work gets looser, edges blurred by warmth and laughter. I explain monster politics to him, how I once tried to convince a senator that we should get tax breaks for needing reinforced office furniture. He tells me about his college thesis, some brilliant paper on interspecies narrative tropes, which he swears nobody read but his mother.
At some point, a strand of pasta slips from his fork, nearly landing on his shirt. I hand him a napkin before he even notices, and he looks up, startled, then smiles like I’ve just rescued him from disaster. My chest tightens in a way I’m not used to.
He laughs at something I say—too loud, too unguarded—and his glasses slip down the bridge of his nose. He pushes them back up quickly, covering his mouth like he’s embarrassed, but I lean closer, greedy for the sound and another whiff of his peppermint hair. That’s when I notice the faint freckles dusting the bridge of his nose. Subtle. Easy to miss if you weren’t looking this close. Fuck, he’s handsome.
The scotch warms me, sure, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of catching him glancing at my horns again. Quick. Curious. Almost shy.
And then—he does it again. He looks at me. Not atme. Into me. Longer. His eyes flick to my horns again, just for a second, then back to meet mine.
My heart stumbles. People look at me all the time but never like this. Never curious and reverent all at once. It’s almost like...
I swallow hard, forcing my voice steady. “You’re staring.”
Jamie’s cheeks tinge pink again. He laughs softly. “Sorry. They just… suit you. They’re lovely.”
“Not everyone thinks so.”
“Well, they’re wrong.”
The silence that follows hums with possibility. My whole body aches to close the space, to touch, to see if his lips taste like scotch and certainty. But?—
I’m the boss. He’s my employee. A junior strategist. I can’t.
So instead I push back from the desk and smile. “We should wrap up. I don’t want to keep you all night.”
His eyes flicker, like he hears the thoughts in my head. Wanting. Yearning. He nods but doesn’t move to pack his belongings.
He stands, and our hands brush—barely, but enough to spark heat through my fur. His eyes snap up to my horns. Again. Fuck.
I don’t breathe. Neither does he.
For a moment, everything holds still, and I wait.
6
BETWEEN A HORN AND A HARD PLACE
JAMIE
It’s late.Too late. The kind of late where even the cleaning crews have finished. The building drones like it’s asleep, and the only lights still on are in Magnus’s office. The rest of the floor is dark. Quiet. A little spooky, except I’ve got the big, strong CEO with me, so really—if there’s a ghost, it should be the one who's worried.
My head feels warm. Not spinning, not foggy. Just light. Scotch isn’t usually my drink of choice, but Magnus insisted I try it with the pasta, and damn if it didn’t pair like a dream. Still—my tolerance is not his. He’s huge, and the man drinks like he could outlast an Irish pub on St. Patrick’s Day. I’ve had, what, one glass? He’s had… enough to put an entire bachelorette party on the floor, and he’s still sharp.
And damn, he looks good. The loosened tie, the open collar with even more of that shaggy golden brown fur poking out, the way his horns catch the low light like polished marble. I keep catching myself staring at them. I can’t stop. They’re mesmerizing. Like twin crescents, elegant and a little intimidating, curving back just enough to remind me—oh yeah, he’s commanding.
And yet, he’s so… sincere. The way he chuckles under his breath when I mispronounce the name of the scotch. The way he leans back in his chair, stretching, groaning softly, and pretending he doesn’t notice when I almost choke on my pasta watching the way his chest pulls tight against his shirt.
I stand to catch my breath, steady my legs, and our hands brush. My eyes—like a magnet—are drawn once more to those stunning horns. I swallow hard, suddenly aware of how obvious I am, and shove my hands into my pockets like a fool, hoping he didn’t notice.
“Jamie.” His voice cuts through my daze, low and deliberate. “You’re staring again?—”
