He doesn't move. Just stands there, watching me, his chest rising and falling visibly under his shirt.
"Sam—"
"Thursday's ready," I say quickly. "We're all set."
He looks at me for a long moment. He knows exactly what I'm doing, putting the wall back up. Then, he nods.
"Okay." His voice is quiet. "Are we good?"
"We’re good."
We walk to the elevator in silence. The hallway lights flicker on, tracking our movement, then fade into darkness behind us. Our footsteps echo flatly on the tile.
The elevator doors open. We step inside.
Tom presses the button for the lobby. The doors slide shut, sealing us in the small metal box. The cables hum overhead, a low, mechanical grinding that makes the space feel suffocatingly tight.
I stare at the floor numbers ticking down—12, 11, 10—and count each one to keep from screaming.
The elevator dings. Lobby.
We step out. The night security guard glances up, nods, goes back to his screen.
Tom stops near the door. I stop a few feet away.
He opens his mouth, then shuts it, his jaw shifting once like he swallowed the words.
"See you Thursday," he says.
"Thursday."
He pushes through the glass door and disappears into the street. I watch him turn toward the subway, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders tight as he walks.
The strap of my bag cuts deep into my palm. I don’t loosen my grip. I let the stiff leather bite into my skin, needing the sharp, grounding sting to clear my head.
I can't blame the late hour, or the quiet office, or him. I wasn't caught off guard. That's the terrifying truth. When he closed the gap, I met him halfway. I let the project, the Board, and my entire career disappear for a pair of green eyes.
I wanted him to kiss me. I still want him to.
And now I have to figure out how to walk into the boardroom on Thursday without him seeing that truth written all over my face.
Chapter sixteen
Tom
The subway glass is black except for my reflection. The train rattles through the tunnel and my face distorts in the dark window. I don't look away.
We almost kissed.
I leaned in. She didn't pull back. If Wren's call hadn't come through, I would've closed that last two inches and kissed Sam Morgan in her office with the door unlocked and the contact sheets still open on her screen.
The train stops at Union Square. People get off. More people get on. I stay pressed against the window, shoulder to the glass, watching the platform lights blur past as we pull out again.
She didn’t stop me. That's the part I keep circling back to. I’ve been telling myself this is one-sided. That I’m the one blurring the lines, that she’s just being polite or professional or caught up in the work.
But she didn't pull away. Which means the line between professional and personal isn't just blurred. It's gone.
The woman next to me shifts her bag. I look down to see if I can make some room and notice my phone screen glowingin the dark glass. Two texts from Sam. Both about Thursday's presentation.
