Page 34 of Dial F for Finance

We’re over.

Tokyo was a blip in time.

A mistake.

He needs to get that through his head.

“Bennett’s on a call,” I lie, stopping him in his tracks just because I can. “You can go and wait for him in conference room three.”

Dominic’s mouth does that tiny, lethal thing it does when he wants to smile and knows better.

“Conference room three?”

“Yes.”

“Not Bennett’s office?”

“No.”

“Not the sitting area?”

“No.”

“Have I been demoted?”

“You’ve been categorized.”

His eyes sharpen.

Good.

I shouldn’t enjoy that. I enjoy it anyway.

“What category?” he asks.

“Obscene inconvenience.”

Dominic’s eyes don’t leave mine as he reaches up and slowly runs his thumb over his bottom lip as though he’s performing thought.

“Conference room three it is,” he says.

He turns.

I hate that I know his walk. I hate that I know the exact breadth of his shoulders under that jacket and the size of the tattoo hidden beneath his shirt. I hate that my body, traitorous and idiotic, tracks him all the way down the hall like it has no memory of consequences, only heat.

The conference room door closes behind him.

The office noise returns.

I stare at my monitor and realize I have typed the same letter seventeen times.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Perfect.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

My cell buzzes against the desk.