Arthur: I’ll be in the conference room whenever you’re free.
I’m fresheningup in the restroom after my morning sessions when my phone buzzes with the text. One glance at the screen is enough to send my pulse into a sprint. I know it’s only eleven thirty, but ever since that kiss my prescription-strength antiperspirant has surrendered all hope of keeping me dry.
The conference room? My stomach lurches. I’ve only been in there once, for my performance review. Why would Arthur want to meet there instead of in his office? His office is private. Intimate.
Unless it isn’t going to be just the two of us.
The thought slams into me like a freight train. I picture Arthur seated at the long, sterile table with a delegation from human resources. Maybe even someone from legal. My cheeks drain of colour at the mental image of me being ushered in like a criminal while Arthur reads a carefully worded statement about propriety and professionalism.
I shudder and grip the sink. “No,” I whisper to my reflection. My face is flushed, my braid a little lopsided from being yanked earlier by Arthur’s hands. I smooth it down with my hands, as if that can erase the evidence. “We’re not going to get ahead of ourselves again. We’re not going to make assumptions. We’re going to show up and communicate clearly.”
My pep talk sounds less convincing aloud than it did in my head, but it will have to do. I straighten my shoulders, dab away the sheen on my forehead, and march out.
As I walk the quiet corridor toward the conference room, I run through the facts like a checklist.
Arthur wants to date me.
“We’re going to be.”
He’d said it like it was a simple fact. Not a question. Not a possibility. A certainty. And then he’d kissed me until my legs turned to gelatin and my brain was scrambled eggs, leaving little room for doubt about his intentions.
It was thrilling and terrifying.
I’ve been resisting my feelings for Arthur for weeks—months, if I’m honest with myself. I’d always assumed the attraction would stay just that: physical, inconvenient, doomed to remain unacted upon. Sure, I’ve indulged in daydreams about him, fantasies that were embarrassingly vivid and wildly inappropriate. But even in those, it was always heat and hands and whispered names in the dark. Never dinner dates. Never something real.
The possibility of a relationship with him? The thought feels surreal. Like I’m trying on someone else’s life. Because someone like Arthur doesn’t end up with a woman like me. Not in reality.
And then there’s Sam. I have no idea how to date as a single mom. I don’t even know where to begin. Arthur has to understand that my son will always come first. Thathe has been the centre of my universe since the moment he was born. Shawn never understood and Sam was his. He resented him. He resented me. Would Arthur resent me too? Would he resent Sam?
“You’re spiralling,” I mutter under my breath as the conference room comes into view.
The door is cracked open, just wide enough that I can see the inside windows from the hallway. My palms are slick, my pulse steady in my ears. I give my arms a quick shake, like I can jolt the nerves right out of me, then draw a deep breath.
And I push the door open.
To my enormous relief Arthur is alone in the conference room. He sits at the far end of the long boardroom table, a notepad and a fountain pen in front of him.
“Elliot,” he says with a professional nod. “Please have a seat.”
He motions to the opposite side of the table. An identical notepad and pen wait there, precisely aligned. The room feels almost comically formal, like we’re about to sign a treaty.
I point. “All the way over here?”
His mouth quirks and his dark eyes travel over me in a way that leaves heat prickling at my neck. “I thought a bit of physical distance might help keep our heads clear.”
How does he manage to make me feel desirable while I am still in damp work sweats with hair that refuses to do what I say? I lift an eyebrow. “You don’t trust me to keep my hands to myself?”
“I don’t trust myself not to climb over the table and maul you again,” he admits, voice steady and very, very calm.
My cheeks go warm.I would not exactly object to another mauling, I think as I pull the chair out and sit in the place he has set for me.
“Why not your office?” Iask.
He folds his hands on the notepad and leans back slightly. “The boardroom felt like a better environment for this matter.”
“And that matter is?”
“Negotiations,” he says simply.
