Page 47 of Twisted Knight

“Ah. Yes. The lane you cross over like a drunk fuck waiting to crash and burn.” I stand up, put my hands in my pockets, and meet him glare for glare. “Can we get a show of hands of who thinks we should veer from the current path?”

Silence permeates the room, everyone afraid to piss Rhett off out of loyalty and me off as the new boss.

Rowan studies me with that quiet, inquisitive stare of hers. She knows I’m right. So does everyone else in this room.

Rhett’s stupidity will bring down Porter in the end as well. Can’t say I’ll lose sleep over that when it happens, though.

“Fine.” I hold my hands up. “Have it your way, Rhett. Give Greatland a three-month extension. Keep all our eggs in that basket. But if something happens and we lose Greatland without having any other aluminum suppliers, TinSpirits will come to a standstill. Output will be halted. Shelves will go bare. Jobs might have to be cut. You know me and my quick trigger finger. That’ll be on you, and everyone in this room will know it.”

“It won’t,” Rhett says and glances at those around us to make sure they all know he just won this battle of wills.

He won because I let him win.

He won because I want to take Porter down too.

“I’ll hold you to it,” I say while everyone begins to collect their things, more than ready to leave this room that now feels like it has turned into a boxing ring.

“And Rowan?” I ask, giving her pause enough to look up and meet my eyes.

“Hmmm?”

“My door has remained open on purpose and you’ve yet to walk through it.”

She continues to look at me, her expression stoic. She’s prim and proper today in her black slacks and cream-colored sweater that hugs her curves. But images of her from the parking lot in Fairmont the other day keep flashing in my mind.

Her blue jeans and plain white shirt. Her hair down in soft waves. The natural pink of her lips and cheeks.

Let it go, Holden.

“I’m talking to you,” I say. She rises from her chair, her eyes locked on mine as she gathers her things. The only indication she gives that she heard me is a stilted pause and the lift of one eyebrow. “We need to finish our conversation where we left off.”

And then she turns on her heel and walks from the room.

I remain where I stand, each manager having to pass me on their way out. Some meet my eyes. Others don’t.

I take note. I always take note.

But it’s Rowan I watch walk down the hall.

It’s Rowan I’m thinking about long after the last person is gone and I’m alone in the conference room. It’s her intelligence and her defiance that are beginning to appeal to me more and more.

I’ve caught myself toggling back and forth between screens of information and images of her several times this week.

It’s Rowan who is talking to a team of her colleagues in the hall, who meets my eyes over their shoulders and smirks. How cute. She thinks she has the upper hand.

She doesn’t, goddammit.

The woman is getting under my skin. I want to scratch her out of it.

She can’t be there.

I don’t want her to be.

And yet I’m still staring at her as she talks, still wondering what the fuck is going through her head.

Look away. Look the fuck away, Holden.

Don’t let her know you think about her at all. Because she could—would—use it against you. Just as you’re doing to her.