Page 112 of Faking It
What about the hope I need?
“I won’t show,” I lie.
“Yes, you will.”
DON’T OVERTHINK THIS, LOW.
Step.
Don’t enter his office with high expectations.
Step.
Don’t walk over the threshold expecting him to have changed.
Step.
Don’t hold on to any hope that he’s going to talk about you and him beyond the contract.
Step.
It’s like a sucker punch when I see him. It sounds dramatic and ridiculous but when he looks up and his eyes meet mine and that slow smile spreads across his lips, my breath catches.
“Hello, Harlow.” He stands. “Please, come in.”
“Hi.” I cross the space, my spine stiff, my nerves rioting beneath the surface. My heart constricts in my chest when he places a soft kiss on my cheek in greeting before pulling my chair out for me.
I expect him to walk back around his desk to sit across from me, but instead he leans his hips against it right in front of me.
Of course.
Too far to touch and too close that I can smell his soap and cologne and remember what those cords of muscles beneath his shirt felt like beneath my palms.
“So?” he says and falls silent until my eyes meet with his.
“So.” There’s so much to say and yet this isn’t the time or place to say it. In my text I told him I could put everything between us aside so we could work together . . . and now I’m trying to and God, how I was wrong. There’s no forgetting a man like Zane Phillips. There’s no playing him down and pushing him under the rug.
“I have a contract for you.”
“Yes.” The less I say the better right now until I can gain control of my emotions rioting out of control. “May I see it?”
“I’d rather talk about it first.”
“Of course you would.”
“I think the terms of it will be to your liking. It will allow you to stay local with a steady monthly income. There will be occasional travel but nothing like before.”
“With you?” I can barely get the words out.
“What?”
“Will I have to travel with you?”
“I am the CEO of the company. Yes, some of the travel will have to be with me.”
Our eyes meet, hold, as the sexual tension ignites between us in a way I can’t even describe. My hands grip the arms of the chair instead of reaching out to touch him like I want.
My heart beats a strident staccato as I try to swallow over everything I really want to say instead of the words that come out.
