“Is efficiency the only thing that matters?”
“In my world? Yes.”
Janice shakes her head. “That’s bleak.”
“That’s reality.” I take a step closer, watching her pupils dilate. She doesn’t back away, though I can see the impulse flicker across her face. “You want to save a building. I want to house three hundred families and generate revenue that keeps this entire project afloat. Which serves the community better?”
“The families you’re housing won’t be from this community. We both know that.”
She’s smart. Too smart.
“You’ve done your research,” I say.
“I always do my research.”
“What else did you find?”
“That you’re very good at making things look legitimate on paper while the reality is considerably less… altruistic.”
The accusation should irritate me. It doesn’t. She’s right, and we both know it. What surprises me is her willingness to say it out loud, here, when she has no power and no protection.
“You’re either very brave or very stupid,” I say quietly.
“Can’t I be both?”
Her mouth curves slightly—not quite a smile, something sharper—and I feel the pull again. Stronger this time. Dangerous.
I let my gaze drop deliberately, tracking the way her shirt pulls tight across her chest with each breath, the soft curve of her waist where the fabric bunches slightly, the generous flare of her hips in denim that looks worn soft. She’s all curves and softness, the kind of body that belongs in paintings, not boardrooms. The kind of body I want to—
I cut the thought off before it finishes forming.
“You should return to your team,” I say, voice carefully neutral. “Before they wonder where you’ve gone.”
Janice blinks, clearly thrown by the dismissal. “That’s it? You’re not going to, I don’t know, threaten me? Kick me off the site?”
“Should I?”
“I just implied you’re running a semi-legitimate gentrification scheme.”
“You didn’t imply. You stated it outright.” I allow myself a small smile. “You’re not wrong, and I respect accuracy. Even when it’s inconvenient.”
She stares at me, trying to reconcile whatever image she’d built in her head with the man standing in front of her. I can see the gears turning, questions forming behind her eyes.
“Why did you help me?” she asks suddenly. “At the event. You didn’t know me. You didn’t owe me anything.”
“I didn’t like the way Patterson was looking at you.”
“Why would you care?”
Good question. One I don’t have a satisfactory answer for.
“I don’t,” I lie. “Consider it a momentary lapse in judgment.”
Her expression shutters. “Right. Of course.”
She turns to leave, and I watch the sway of her hips as she walks away, the way her shirt pulls tight across her lower back. Full curves that belong in a different era, soft where the women in my world are sharp and angular. There’s something compelling about it. Abouther.
I’ve already crossed a line by arranging this walkthrough. I knew exactly who Carmichael’s firm would send, knew exactly when she’d arrive. The transparency excuse was flimsy at best, and if Felix were here, he’d call it what it is: manufactured proximity.
