Page 8 of On The Edge

“When does the meeting start?”

“Thirty minutes. Make sure everything is set up as it should be.”

Like I have any clue what that means. Guess I’ll pull the whole fake it until I make it. “Sure thing.”

Kevin turns to walk away but then stops and looks back at me. “You still haven’t answered the question.”

“Which one is that?”

“What are you willing to sacrifice to get to the next step?”

The question sticks with me as I take the elevator up to the ninth floor, past all the closed doors, and down the empty hallway to the largest of all our conference rooms. Whatever needs to be in place seems to be in place.

I think.

Green portfolio folders are already at each seat. A fancy pen box is open in the middle of the table. I’d assume it’s for the signing of the contract, but there doesn’t seem to be a pen inside. I scrunch my nose, a tad confused with worry that someone took what I can assume is the “deal-signing pen.” Definitely something I need to suss out before everyone arrives.

There’s a pitcher of water at the center of the table with glasses on a tray beside it. Prototypes of the Revive packaging and overall marketing campaign blanket the easels that are propped around the room.

I’m not one hundred percent sure what exactly the conference room is supposed to look like, but it looks fine to me, so I distribute the packets of paper to each seat as directed. It’s when I head out of the conference room to go back and figure out the pen situation that I see a man about twenty feet away down the hallway.

Other than the whole wearing his sunglasses inside thing, it’s clear the man is flustered—or is it panicked?—as he jostles the handles on a couple doors only to find them all locked. With the last denial of access, he groans in frustration.

Stuck between heading upstairs for Pen Gate and backing away slowly so he doesn’t see me, I stand there and watch him.

He tries another door and a strangled sound comes from deep within his throat when he finds that one locked too.

“Damn it,” he mutters, his hand gripping his phone so tightly his knuckles are white.

It’s then that he notices me. A baseball hat sits low on his forehead, and his eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses, but I know he’s staring at me.

“I just need a minute.” He labors the words out.

“That one’s open,” I say without thinking and point to the door midway between us that leads to a break room of sorts. It’s one of the only unlocked doors on this floor.

There’s a sudden change in the set of his jaw. That along with the sagging of his shoulders tells me the reprieve I’m offering is what he’s looking for. With a curt nod, he moves into the room, leaving the tension to dissipate in the air around me.

Common sense would tell me to walk away and use the precious few minutes I have left before the meeting to take a quick bathroom break, gather my computer so I can take notes, and find out why the pen is missing. Surely it’s not on purpose, right? But there is something about the man that has me walking toward the door and making sure he’s okay. A draw that has me stepping a few feet into the room.

He could be a serial killer, Maddix. He’s on the ninth floor of an office building when the floor is, for all intents and purposes, closed. And here you are, following him into a room when it’s desolate.

Not one of my smartest ideas to date, but that doesn’t stop me from standing and studying him.

He moves about the room. His breathing is labored. His hands are trembling. His mouth is pulled tight, and his entire body’s tense.

I open my mouth to ask him if he’s okay several times but then close it. It’s only when he stops at the window, braces his hand on the ledge, looks outside, and exhales a rather shaky breath that I speak.

“Can I help you?” I offer.

His body tenses again—almost as if he didn’t realize he had an audience. “No. I’m fine.” He grits the words out in the subtlest of accents, but when he looks over his shoulder at me, he plasters on the most disingenuous smile I’ve ever seen.

Clearly, he’s not okay.

“It doesn’t look like you’re fine,” I say, taking a few steps toward him.

“I said I’m fine.” It’s now that he stands up to his full height and turns to look at me. His sunglasses are off, and I’m met with the lightest set of amber eyes I’ve ever seen. Although a bit bloodshot, they have flecks of gold in them and are framed by a thick set of lashes I’d kill for. His well-defined jaw is set, the muscle ticking on one side, and his full lips are pulled in a straight line. His nostrils flare as he breathes in sharply but tries to appear that he isn’t.

Jesus. If this man is a serial killer, his looks alone are enough to lure any woman to their demise.