The tiny scar near his temple.
The way his forearm flexes when he shifts.
The soft scrape of his thumb against the rim of his coffee cup.
The tension in his throat when he swallows like he’s trying to keep something down.
And God help me, I want to be the reason he loses control.
But I’m still pretending and hiding behind someone else’s name. So I just smile, tight and fake, while my heart howls.
His expression shifts. Determination, maybe. “Then I guess I’d better make the most of the time I have.”
I stare at him, completely floored. “Fuck,” I mutter. “You really do have it bad.”
“Told you.” He grins, then glances at his watch. “I need to get back to work. But hey, if you talk to her later, tell her I had a good time. And that I want to see her again. Soon.”
“I’ll pass it along.”
He claps me on the shoulder and leaves the kitchen.
I stand there for a long moment, clutching my coffee mug, trying to process what just happened.
He likes me. Really likes me. Wants to see me again.
And I’m in so much trouble.
I’m about to head to my desk when Slater appears in the doorway, his presence immediately commanding attention.
“Ash.” His voice is serious, clipped. “You got a moment to talk? My office.”
The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees, yet his voice lingers in my mind, the one I’ve heard thousands of times before, just not like this. Not directed at me. It pulls at something low in my spine.
I nod, trying to not let the hitch in my breath show, and follow him down the hallway to his office, every step loud in my ears, the click of my boots against the floor like a countdown. He’s too quiet. Too serious.
Has he found something out? Does he know?
I run a hand down my shirt as discreetly as I can, checking the hem, making sure nothing is out of place. The wig feels too hot suddenly, like my scalp knows the jig is up.
His office is exactly what I’d expect from someone like him—practical, minimal, with an orderliness that screamscontrol freak. The desk is massive, solid wood, and behind it, wide windows frame a postcard-perfect view of the harbor. Nautical charts line the walls in crisp symmetry. His bookshelf isn’t just for show either. It feels like a room meant for confrontations.
He sinks into the leather chair behind the desk, posture stiff, arms resting heavily on the armrests like a judge settling in to hand out a sentence. He doesn’t glance at his computer, just stares straight at me.
Gestures to the seat across from him. “Sit.”
My legs hesitate before following orders, and I swear my palms leave faint sweat marks on the seat when I finally lower myself. I try to mirror his calm. I don’t fidget, don’t crack a smile, but my pulse is thudding at my throat from the voice and the command that come right before a heroine in one of his romance books melts into a wall and begs to be ruined.
My thighs tense, and I’m clenching them.
Not now. Not here!
But my body doesn’t care when it hearsthatvoice and goes straight to heat prep as if I’m about to star in a very different kind of story. Right now, I’m close to combusting from just one damn syllable.
He’s still quiet. Just watching me with that unreadable expression that makes it impossible to tell if he’s mad orthinking of which body of water to toss me into. I force myself not to squirm.
“I’m not particularly happy with you after last night,” he says finally.
God.
