JULIETTE
OneMonthLater
Nick Mercer walked into Wilder Horizons headquarters at 9:48 A.M., and I was not watching from the glass wall of my office like a woman with a degenerative professionalism disorder.
I’d checked the time twice. Five times, if anyone was counting.
The executive floor carried the usual polished hum of Maris Key money in motion: low voices, citrus water sweating in glass dispensers, the soft click of Daisy’s nails against her tablet. Sunlight poured through the Gulf-side windows and turned the floor a glossy cream.
Nick entered with a South African tan and absolutely no evidence that city clothes had made him safer. He wore darkdress slacks, a white shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and city boots polished just enough to suggest he had allowed civilization one concession. Clean steel caught the light at his wrist, and his beard was trimmed shorter than it had been at Mara Khaya, precise enough to be deliberate and reckless enough to be an invitation.
Brynn, who had absolutely no business being near reception, let out a low whistle from somewhere behind Daisy’s desk, and my coffee went down wrong.
He paused just inside reception, not uncertain, exactly. His gaze moved once over the glass walls, the fast shoes, and the dangerous concentration of women with tablets and opinions. His face gave nothing away.
I coughed once into my fist and pretended it was the caffeine that had betrayed me.
Daisy looked up from reception. Her gaze moved from Nick to me, then back to Nick, then down to her tablet with the concentrated restraint of a woman whose entire soul had leaned forward and been told to sit down.
My phone buzzed against my desk.
DAISY: He’s here.
DAISY: Obviously you know this.
DAISY: Should I offer coffee, water, or a company-wide moment of silence?
ME: Coffee. For people actually attending the meeting.
DAISY: Right. Coffee for the meeting. Thoughts and prayers for the lobby.
ME: Daisy.
DAISY: Coffee it is.
His gaze lifted, found me through the glass, and my pulse stopped pretending headquarters was neutral territory.
I stepped back from the glass before Summer could appear in my doorway with her tablet, a folder, and a look that said my personal life had just been added to the agenda.
My desk was clear. My calendar was blocked. My expression was neutral enough to pass a casual inspection by someone who didn't share my DNA.
Unfortunately, Summer shared my DNA.
A knock landed on my open door.
She stood there in navy trousers and a silk blouse, her hair clipped back. “He’s early.”
“He’s punctual.”
“That wasn't criticism.”
“Your face occasionally has range.”
Her mouth twitched. “You’re not coming into the meeting.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
