Adriel sat, perching on the edge of the sleek leather chair, back rigid enough to ache. Landen settled back down with ease, took a sip of the coffee, set it aside, and folded his hands on the desk.
What followed was a quiet, detailed outline of the role; expectations, key projects, the rhythm of the editorial floor. Landen's explanations were clear and direct. He named authors and titles Adriel recognized with something approaching awe, speaking of them not as distant celebrities but as parts of a complex living organism he steered.
Then he asked questions.
Real, probing questions that required actual thought. He slid a manuscript across the desk, a dense literary novel about grief Adriel had read front to back in his desperation to prepare, and asked, "The first fifty pages. What's the central tension the author is avoiding, and why do you think they're avoiding it?"
Adriel's mind blanked. His tongue felt thick. "I… I'm not sure. I mean, maybe the… sorry, let me think…"
Landen waited. He didn't interrupt, didn't fill the silence with prompting. Just watched, his gaze patient and focused entirely on Adriel.
That focus was a terrifying, magnetic thing.
Slowly, haltingly, Adriel began to speak. Soft at first, peppered with reflexivesorrysand hesitant pauses that stretched like elastic. But as he talked, grasping for the threads of his own analysis, something shifted.
Landen listened. Nodded at certain points, his eyes narrowing in thought at others. He asked a follow-up that cut to the very heart of Adriel's half-formed idea, clarifying it, giving it shape and substance.
A fragile steadiness took root in Adriel's chest.
He was being heard. His thoughts, usually a frantic jumbled mess dismissed before they could fully form, were being given space and weight in this impossibly powerful man's office. Landen Waters was treating him like a colleague. Like someone whose opinion mattered.
It felt dangerous. Like being handed something beautiful that wasn't meant for him, knowing that the moment he reached for it properly, someone would realize the mistake and take it back.
And then, in a lull, the terrifying awareness crashed over him.
He was staring.
His gaze had drifted from Landen's eyes to his mouth, watching the way it formed words with a captivating movement. To his hands, long-fingered, elegant, a single platinum band on his thumb, as they turned a page. Up the stark, perfect line of his dark-suited arm to the shocking bright gold of his hair.
A bolt of pure, mortifying heat shot through Adriel.
He looked away. Fast. Heart slamming.
Men like Landen Waters existed in orbits far removed from his own. They dated sleek, intimidatingly beautiful people, peoplewho didn't bump into shelves and blurt apologies and perch on the edges of chairs like they were ready to bolt.
People like him don't see people like me.
The old, bitter mantra surfaced automatically. A fact of his universe, as reliable as gravity.
Andyet.
Landen was seeing him. Listening with an intensity that felt like a spotlight, and Adriel was simultaneously desperate to escape its beam and terrified it would swing away. Mortified by the traitorous attraction coiling in his gut, and quietly, profoundly stunned that Landen Waters seemed genuinely interested in the words stumbling from his lips.
It felt like being offered a feast while famished. One he didn't know if he was allowed to eat.
The meeting ended soon after.
Landen glanced at the thin platinum watch on his wrist and gathered the manuscript pages into a neat stack. "I've taken enough of your first morning." The executive tone returned, though the warmth from their discussion still lingered at its edges. "Your desk is in the pod just outside. Miriam will show you the current priority list. Start with the reader reports on the Slater manuscript; I'd like your summarized notes by the end of the day, tomorrow."
Adriel scrambled to his feet. "Yes. Of course. Thank you, Mr. Waters."
"Landen is fine." That faint curve-of-the-lips not-quite-smile. "Welcome to Grayson House, Adriel."
Adriel.
His name, in that voice. A small electric shock; warm and specific and completely unfair.
"Thank you," he repeated, the words feeling utterly inadequate.
