Page 130 of Terms of Exposure
"Are you asking me on a date, Mr. Holt?"
"I'm asking you to eat a salad with me in a corporate cafeteria, Ms. Sinclair." I grinned. The elevator doors started to close, I stretched out a hand. "But if you want to call it a date, I won't argue."
"Twelve-thirty?"
"Twelve-thirty."
She stepped off the elevator, heading toward her end of the hall. She glanced back over her shoulder.
"It's a date."
Three words. Ordinary.
For us, a victory.
I followed a moment later—careful to maintain our distance.
As I walked, the day had begun to catalogue—meetings, contracts, calls—when a voice stopped me cold.
"Damien."
Nathan Bell stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall. Arms crossed. Face suspiciously pleasant.
"Nathan." I didn't slow my pace. "If this is about the Harrington contracts, I'm meeting with legal at two."
"It's not about Harrington." He pushed off the wall and fell into step beside me. "I was hoping for a moment alone. If you have one to spare."
I didn't.
But Jennifer's voice echoed in my head: no confrontations, no threats, let him dig, let him chase shadows.
"Of course," I said smoothly, gesturing toward my office. "After you."
Nathan's mouth curved—that thin, reptilian lift that never reached his eyes.
The office door closed behind us with a soft click.
"Drink?" I moved toward the liquor cart, more for something to do with my hands than any real desire for whiskey at one in the afternoon.
"No, thank you." Nathan settled into one of the chairs across from my desk, crossing one leg over the other. Relaxed. Comfortable.
Too comfortable.
"I wanted to congratulate you," he said.
"On?"
"Emma Sinclair. She completed her mentorship this morning. Weeks of sessions. Not a single complaint filed. Quite impressive."
My vision narrowed on his hands, resting on his stomach.
The touches she'd described in clipped, minimized sentences.
Just my shoulder.
Nothing crazy.
The way she'd gone still when I asked if he'd done it again.
