“I am executive sponsor, not your handler.”
“Shame.”
My eyes closed. “Nick.”
“Noted.”
The word slid across the distance between us, low and dry and entirely too aware of what he was doing to my composure.
I opened my eyes again. Morning had softened the pool to pale blue. “I won’t use my company as an excuse to pull you closer.”
“I know you wouldn't, Juliette.”
“And I won’t pretend your expertise is irrelevant because wanting you makes it inconvenient.”
No sound came through the line. My grip tightened around the mug before I could stop it.
“You want me?” he asked.
My pulse touched the base of my throat. “Don't sound surprised. It’s insulting to both of us.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Then what are you?”
His answer came lower. “Interested in what you plan to do about it.”
I stared at a heron beyond the glass. “Shut up, Mercer.”
“No.”
The word was quiet. Unhelpful. Devastating.
A door shut somewhere on his end. Farther away this time. Someone called his name—Daniel, likely—but Nick didn't answer him.
I turned my back to the glass and leaned against the edge of the island. The quartz pressed cool through the thin fabric of my silk pajama top.
“D.C. first,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Then Maris Key.”
“If the meeting makes sense.”
“It does.”
“You haven’t seen my terms.”
“I know what Maris Key makes possible.”
A pause.
“Closer,” he said.
“Yes.”
“So what are we doing?” he asked.
