3. Bee #2
I sit there with the closed laptop in front of me, my hands flat on either side of it, breathing through a slow, ugly realization.
Skylor knew. Of course he knew. He knew Layn owned coffee plantations in Brazil, knew Dr. Mack’s work touched environmental impact and supply chains, knew exactly why that article mattered.
And he let me pitch it to him like it wasn’t aimed at his family’s private business.
Maybe he approved the story because he respected my work.
Maybe he approved it because he wanted to manage me.
Maybe both are true, which is annoying because complicated men should come with labels and side effects printed clearly on their foreheads.
I stand.
The anger carries me across the hall before fear can put on shoes.
Skylor’s assistant is not at her desk, and the floor beyond my office sits strangely quiet, all polished stone, glass and the distant hush of an executive level after normal people have gone home to make dinner, watch bad television and not accuse alien royalty of hiding coffee-related secrets.
Lucky them. I knock once anyway because I was raised right, even if my choices this week suggest the lesson did not fully take.
“Come in, Miss Watson.”
His voice reaches through the door, low and rough, and my body has the nerve to respond before my brain does. My nipples tighten inside my bra. Heat gathers low in my belly. My suppressants, those expensive little traitors, do the medical equivalent of shrugging and walking into traffic.
I push the door open.
Skylor sits behind his desk with the blue-tinted glasses off and a thin stack of papers in front of him.
He finishes marking a line with a sleek black pen, sets it down, and only then lifts his gaze to mine.
His eyes are soft corn-flower yellow around black pupils, beautiful enough to be rude and strange enough to remind me he is not a man, no matter how nicely that suit lies about it.
The pupils widen the moment he looks at me, and I file that away because a journalist respects data, even when the data is tall, blue and dangerous to workplace stability.
“Dr. MacArthur mentioned Brazil,” I say.
“Yes.”
“She mentioned Layn.”
“Yes.”
I step inside and close the door behind me. The click sounds too final. “So it’s true. Layn owns coffee plantations in Brazil.”
“Yes.”
That is it. One clean word. No flinch. No explanation. No slippery corporate language dressed up in expensive vowels. I should appreciate the honesty, but I am too busy wanting to throw my notebook at him.
“You knew that when I pitched the article.”
“Yes.”
“You knew the feature could put Athena in a position where we’re investigating our own parent company.”
“Yes.”
“Are you planning to answer in complete sentences today, or should I send a request to whatever royal department handles verbs?”
His gaze drops to my notebook, then returns to my face. “Many companies own coffee plantations in Brazil.”
“That’s your full answer?”
“For now.”
I let out a slow breath through my nose. “That is a very polished way to say absolutely nothing.”
“It is a factual way to say what I am willing to say.”
“Dr. MacArthur has questions about land use, water stress, soil depletion and worker protections.”
“Then she is doing her job.”
“So am I.”
“I know.”
The simple answer knocks a little wind out of me. Not enough to stop. Just enough to sting.
“Then will you accept an interview request?”
“No.”
“Wow. Fast. I almost respect the efficiency.”
His mouth tightens, and for one treacherous second, I think he might smile. “Submit the request to my secretary.”
“Like everyone else?”
“Yes.”
“And will you accept?”
“Probably not.”
“Probably?”
He leans back in his chair. The movement should not be interesting.
It is a man shifting in leather, not a religious event.
My body does not care. His suit pulls across his shoulders, the dark fabric cutting hard lines over all that alien strength, and my attention falls apart for half a second before I drag it back with both hands.
“Ordinarily, I would say no. Definitely not.”
“Ordinarily.”
“Yes.”
The word slides across the desk and settles between us.
I narrow my eyes. “What makes this less ordinary?”
He studies me for a long moment. Too long. Long enough for the anger under my skin to find another heat and curl around it.
“You have an advantage other journalists do not,” he says.
My fingers tighten around the notebook. “I work for you?”
“No.”
“I know where your office is?”
“No.”
“I am short enough to sneak past whatever security system you clearly have and hide under your desk until you answer my questions?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Quick. Controlled. Not quick enough.
“That would be unwise.”
“Probably,” I say, because my survival instinct has apparently decided to take a personal day.
His eyes shift. Gold flame licks through the soft yellow around those black pupils before he blinks once and forces it back. My pulse slips, like my body has stepped on wet tile.
“What’s my advantage?” I ask.
He says nothing.
“Skylor.”
His fingers still on the edge of the desk.
The sound of his name changes him. Not in any way I can prove, which is irritating, but in the way his shoulders lock, his pupils widen, and the angle of his ears sharpens toward me.
I have known him for a day and have no business reading any part of him, but his body keeps putting punctuation on sentences his mouth refuses to finish.
“My advantage,” I press.
His voice drops. “I do not know that I would be able to deny you anything.”
Oh.
The notebook almost slips from my hand.
That sentence does not flirt. It does not wink or tease or show off for a woman in an office with glass walls and too many reasons to know better. It lands bare and serious, stripped of performance. My heartbeat moves into my throat, beating there like it wants out.
“You should not say things like that to employees,” I manage.
“No.”
“Or journalists.”
“No.”
“Or women who are already having a very strange day.”
His gaze holds mine. “Especially not them.”
A laugh breaks out of me before I can stop it. Not a real laugh. More of a shaky little escape attempt. His eyes brighten again, gold flame pushing through the yellow, and the laugh dies in my throat.
He stands.
I take one step back.
He notices. Of course he notices. His hands flatten on the desk, long fingers spread beside my notebook. He does not come around it yet. That should help. It does not. The desk is not a barrier. It is a countdown.
“You asked why this is less ordinary,” he says.
“I’m starting to regret that.”
“You should.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“I am not trying to reassure you.” His voice roughens, and the faint rasp drags over my skin. “I am trying to remain honest.”
“Try less dramatically.”
“I am afraid you are my mate.”
The word strikes clean through the room.
Mate.
No. Absolutely not.
My body hears the word and lights up like the worst possible switchboard operator. Heat blooms between my thighs. My mouth goes dry. My fingers flex against the notebook because I need to hold something that is not him.
“No,” I say. “No, this is not a mate thing.”
His gaze stays on mine. “No?”
“It’s attraction.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
His head tilts a fraction. “You sound very certain.”
“I am.” I am not. “People get attracted to inappropriate men all the time. It’s practically a national hobby.”
“I am not a man.”
“That is not the correction you think it is.”
His mouth softens at the edge. Barely. Enough to make my stomach dip.
I point at him with the notebook. “This is chemistry. Hormones. Pheromones. Bad workplace decisions wearing a very expensive suit.”
“Then you will want to test the theory.”
My brain stops. “What?”
He comes around the desk at last, slow enough to give me every chance to move, to tell him no, to remember I came here for answers about coffee plantations and corporate ownership.
My feet stay where they are because they are idiots.
Loyal idiots, but idiots. Skylor stops in front of me and reaches for the notebook.
His fingers brush mine as he takes it. The contact is small, barely skin against skin, but it still sends a hot pull straight through my belly. He sets the notebook on his desk.
“You are a journalist,” he says. “You are curious. Let’s see if this is only attraction.”
“You mean kiss me.”
“Yes.”
“Again, not how journalism works.”
“No. This is closer to science.”
“Science requires informed consent, Your Royal Blueberry.”
His brows lift.
Oh no.
I said that out loud.
A beat of silence passes between us. Then his mouth curves, not quite a smile, but close enough to threaten civilization.
“Your Royal Blueberry,” he repeats.
“I panicked.”
“I noticed.”
“Don’t be smug. Your species probably has ridiculous fruit too.”
“Several.”
“Good. I’m sure one of them looks like an arrogant prince with boundary issues.”
His amusement fades into something hotter. “My boundaries are the only reason you are still untouched.”
The room goes very still.
My breath catches at the base of my throat.
The line should offend me. Maybe it does, somewhere underneath the sudden slick heat gathering between my thighs.
But he said untouched, not claimed. Said it like his control costs him.
Said it while standing close enough for me to see the faint tremor in his fingers before he curls them into his palms.
Skylor reaches toward the edge of his desk and presses a button set into the glossy black surface. The glass walls behind me darken in a smooth, silent sweep until the city, the corridor and every possible witness vanish behind opaque panels. My pulse trips over itself.
“What was that?”
“Privacy.”
“That is either thoughtful or extremely alarming.”
“Yes.”
“That was not an either-or question.”
“I know.”