"Poppy." He smiles, and something in my chest tightens. "Thank you for coming."
"You're paying me to come."
"Am I?" He moves toward me, and I have to fight the urge to step back. "I thought I was paying you for your expertise. The coming was optional."
"Nothing about this arrangement feels optional."
The words slip out before I can stop them, sharper than I intended. His smile widens.
"Honesty. I've missed that."
He gestures to a sitting area near the window—two leather couches facing each other across a glass coffee table. I sit on one, expecting him to take the other. Instead, he sits beside me. Close. Too close.
"The gala," he says, as if we're having a normal business meeting. "I'm thinking black and white. Dramatic. Elegant. What do you suggest?"
I try to focus on the question, but his proximity makes it difficult. I can smell his cologne—something dark and expensive. I can feel the heat of his body, inches from mine.
"Black dahlias," I hear myself say. "White roses. Perhaps some dark greenery for contrast."
"Dahlias." His voice drops, intimate. "You know I love dahlias."
My hands are trembling. I clasp them in my lap, hoping he won't notice.
He notices. Of course he notices.
"You're nervous," he observes.
"I'm professional."
"You're nervous." He reaches out and touches my hand—just a brush of his fingers against my knuckles. "You don't need to be. Not with me."
I should pull away. I should stand up, walk out, break the contract, and damn the consequences.
Instead, I sit frozen, feeling his touch like a brand on my skin.
"What are you doing?" I whisper.
"I'm not doing anything." His fingers trace along my wrist, finding my pulse. "Your heart is racing."
"Because I'm afraid of you."
"Is that all?"
I don't answer. I can't answer. Because the truth is more complicated than fear, more shameful than I can admit.
He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "I think about you constantly. Every moment of every day. I wonder if you think about me too."
"I don't—"
"Don't lie to me, Poppy." His hand slides up my arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "I can't bear it when you lie."
I should move. I should run.
I don't.
"This isn't..." My voice is barely audible. "This isn't what I signed up for."
"I know." His lips brush my temple—the lightest touch, barely there. "That's what makes it so interesting."
