He hesitated only a fraction of a second—long enough for his lion to catalog the subtle fragrance of her perfume and the confident set of her shoulders.
“Come in.” The invitation emerged rougher than intended. “Let’s review everything.”
Exposure will dull the distraction. Proximity will normalize her presence.
The words barely convinced him as he led her into his office, hyperaware of her presence behind him. She settled into the chair across from his desk with practiced elegance, crossing her legs in a way that caused his mouth to go dry.
“Your ten o’clock moved to ten-thirty,” she began, her fingers dancing across the tablet screen with confident efficiency. “I’veconfirmed the blueprints will be ready for review, and I took the liberty of scheduling a brief pre-meeting with Travis to discuss budget adjustments.”
Her scent wrapped around him as she spoke—warm vanilla with hints of something floral that made his lion pace restlessly. The mate bond hummed between them like a live wire, tugging at instincts he could not indulge.
“The lunch meeting with Cross Development is confirmed for twelve-thirty at the Metropolitan Club,” she continued, then paused, something flickering across her features. “Damian Cross, specifically.”
His lion reacted instantly, not only to the name, but to the slight hesitation in her voice and the barely perceptible tightening around her eyes. Damian had been a rival long before corporate competition made it official, shaped by pride politics, old grudges, and the brutal confrontation that had followed his father’s death.
What does she know about Damian?
“It’s just an acquisition discussion,” Leander said evenly, though his hands clenched against his thighs. “Nothing to worry about. I’ll handle it.”
He didn’t have time to worry about Damian right now. Discovering she was Neve Taylor had already shifted something fundamental inside him—the blogger whose architectural insights matched his own too closely, whose voice he had admired in quiet solitude, now was within arm’s reach speaking directly into his ordered world.
This arrangement is going to work too well.
He could feel it in the way his carefully constructed life had begun to fray at the edges, the way partnership tugged at places in his chest he had thought permanently sealed. But partnership wasn’t something he could afford.
Yet the mate bond refused to settle, his lion fixated on one singular, dangerous thought.
Claim her.
“Also,” Camille continued, her composure returning, “the zoning committee meeting for Thursday has been moved to?—”
She stopped mid-sentence, her face paling slightly. One hand pressed against her stomach in a gesture so subtle he almost missed it.
“I’m sorry,” she said, rising with careful control. “I need to step out for a moment. I apologize for cutting this short.”
Concern flared through him, immediate and protective. The urge to demand answers, to fix whatever was wrong, crashed against his better judgment.
“Don’t apologize for taking care of yourself,” he heard himself say, his voice softening. “I’ll page you if I need anything urgent. Take your time familiarizing yourself with the schedule and systems. We’ll touch base later.”
She nodded gratefully, moving toward the door with that same graceful efficiency that had caught his attention from the beginning.
As the door closed behind her, Leander leaned back in his leather chair and dragged a hand through his blonde hair. The morning sun painted his office in warm gold, but all he could think about was the way she had looked at him—professional, competent, and completely unaware of the chaos she had unleashed in his perfectly ordered world.
His lion prowled, unsatisfied by distance, demanding proximity, claiming, and protection. Everything he had spent twelve years learning to suppress.
Two days.
In two days, she had reorganized his systems, revealed herself as the writer whose work he followed religiously, and made him lie about a meeting because the thought of sittingacross from her for an hour had terrified him more than any hostile takeover.
The intercom buzzed, jarring him from thoughts that were becoming increasingly dangerous.
“Yes?”
“Leander?” Camille’s voice carried through the speaker, still slightly strained but determined. “I wanted to confirm—do you prefer the Lexington materials printed or digital for your review?”
Even through the intercom, her voice sent heat spiraling through him.
“Digital is fine,” he managed. “And Camille?”
