12. Bennett
BENNETT
“ T hree workouts yesterday?” Caleb's standing in my doorway like he's caught me embezzling. “Jenna says you went through four shirts and scared two interns in the gym.”
“It's been a challenging week.” I don't look up from the Nakamura contract revision. Fifteen pages of legal gymnastics that should hold my complete attention. Instead, I'm calculating how many hours until I might accidentally run into Layla by the coffee station.
“A challenging week.” He steps inside, closing the door. “Is that what we're calling your slow descent into madness?”
“I'm not?—”
“Monday: You rescheduled a board call because it conflicted with the Carmichael integration meeting. Tuesday: You personally reviewed janitor schedules for the NeuraTech lab. Wednesday: Logan caught you staring at Layla's ass for a full thirty seconds during his presentation. ”
I finally look up. “Logan's exaggerating.”
“Logan timed it.” Caleb drops into his usual chair. “And let's not forget last week's masterpiece—telling her the green dress looked good on her. In front of Jenna. Who told Claire. Who told the entire forty-second floor.”
“Since when do you listen to office gossip?”
He grins. “Since always. The ladies love a man who listens. You should try it sometime instead of just growling at them.”
“I don't growl.”
“You literally growled at the coffee vendor this morning because he was talking to Layla too long.”
Fuck. “He was holding up the line.”
“He was taking her order.” Caleb leans back, studying me like I'm a fascinating specimen. “I'm actually impressed you've held out this long. It's been, what, three weeks since the rooftop? I had money on you cracking by day three.”
“You bet on my self-control?”
“Everyone did. Vicky has you making it a month. Jenna thinks you'll snap during the board presentation next week.” He pulls out his phone. “Want to know what odds they're giving?”
“This is wildly inappropriate.”
“So is eye-fucking your acquisition target's daughter, but here we are.” His grin widens. “The entire finance department has a spreadsheet.”
My phone buzzes before I can respond. Email from Robert Carmichael with the subject line: URGENT - Corporate Vampirism and the Death of Innovation.
“Christ,” I mutter, opening it .
It's worse than a manifesto. It's a declaration of war. Four pages of increasingly unhinged metaphors comparing me to various parasites, complete with attached scientific articles about bloodsucking organisms. The phrase “Bennett Mercer's soulless money machine” appears seven times.
“Let me guess,” Caleb says. “Robert's having another episode?”
“He's completely lost it.” I scroll through charts he's made showing 'Innovation Death Spirals.' “This is the fifth email this week. He CC'd the entire board.”
“And the press?” Caleb leans forward to look.
“Not yet. But he's threatening to call Wright Media. Says the public deserves to know how we're 'murdering the future of medical innovation.'”
“Dramatic.” Caleb takes my phone, scanning. “Oh, he made graphs. That's dedicated crazy.”
“He's going to blow up the entire acquisition if I don't contain this.”
“So contain it. Take him to dinner. Get him drunk. Let him vent his spleen over pasta.”
“He doesn't trust me. Thinks I'm the antichrist.” The solution forms even as I resist it. “I'll need Layla there as a buffer.”
Caleb's expression turns gleeful. “How convenient.”
“It's necessary. She's the only one who can translate his hysteria into English.”
“Right. Necessary.” He hands back my phone. “Nothing to do with the fact that you've been looking for an excuse to see her outside the office all week.”
“This is about?—”
“I know, I know. Business.” He stands, brushing invisible lint from his suit. “But since we're being honest, can I make an observation?”
“Would it matter if I said no?”
“Not even slightly.” He moves toward the door, then turns back. “You're treating this like a hostile takeover when it should be a merger.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means you're so busy protecting your assets that you're missing the opportunity for something better.” He pauses. “She's not trying to acquire you, Bennett. She just wants you. There's a difference.”
“Caleb—”
“I've known you twelve years. I've watched you turn yourself into this perfect corporate machine. No feelings. No weakness. No messy human connections.” His voice softens. “Maybe it's time to consider a different business model.”
“This from the man who literally dragged me away from her at the festival?” I lean back, studying him. “And interrupted us at the bar? You've changed your tune pretty dramatically.”
Caleb has the grace to look slightly sheepish. “That was before I knew who she was. Some random woman who gave you a fake number? Classic gold-digger move. I was protecting you.”
“And now?”
“Now I know she's the real deal. Smart. Fierce. Fights for her people.” He shrugs.
“And more importantly, she had no idea what you're worth.
Did you know she googled you after the acquisition?
Jenna went through her search history when she was digging up dirt for you. First time she'd ever looked you up. ”
That stops me cold. “That wasn’t in the file.”
“She didn’t think it was relevant to her ability to do her job. But I like that she didn’t know who you were until after you'd already started circling each other like horny teenagers.” His grin returns. “Which means she wants you for you. Not your bank account or your connections. Just you.”
“There is no just me. I am my company.”
“And that,” Caleb points at me, “is exactly the kind of bullshit she's going to call you on. Which is why you need her.”
The door clicks shut before I can tell him to fuck off. Which is probably for the best since he's right.
I am treating Layla like a threat to be managed instead of... what? An opportunity? An investment?
Christ. Even my metaphors are fucked.
I dial her number before I can overthink it.
“Bennett.” The way she says my name goes straight to my cock.
“Your father's one email away from calling a press conference about corporate vampirism.”
“Oh God.” A heavy sigh. “What's he done now?”
“Four pages. Graphs. Scientific articles about parasites. He CC'd your entire board.”
“Of course he did.” I can hear her rubbing her temples through the phone. “Yesterday he printed out pictures of you and drew devil horns on them. I found them taped to the lab door.”
Despite everything, my mouth twitches. “Creative.”
“He's convinced you're going to turn NeuraTech into—and I quote—'a soulless profit tentacle of the Mercer empire.' ”
“Dinner tonight. Lorenzo's. Seven-thirty.” I lean back, already imagining her across from me. “Can you make him behave?”
“I can try. But he's like a terrier with a bone when he thinks he's right.”
“I need this contained, Layla. The board's already nervous about the changes we’ve made to the timeline.”
“I know.” Her voice drops. “I'll handle him. Somehow.”
Silence stretches between us, charged with everything we're not saying.
“It's been a long week,” she says finally.
“Yes.”
“That thing you said. About my dress.”
My pulse kicks up. “What about it?”
“I think your assistant overheard and told someone. I've had three people ask me if we're sleeping together.”
“What did you tell them?”
“The truth. That we're maintaining professional boundaries.”
“Right.” The words taste like ash. “Professional boundaries.”
“Exactly.” She pauses. “Even though you look at me like you're imagining what I'd look like naked.”
My cock goes rock hard. “Layla?—”
“I'll see you tonight, Bennett. Try not to growl at any more coffee vendors.”
She hangs up before I can respond. I stare at the phone, adjusting myself under the desk.
Professional boundaries. Right.
I'm so completely fucked.