Chapter 9 #3
His name sounded different in the office. More reckless than it had at dinner. More like stepping over a line that had been drawn between us when neither of us were looking.
His eyes lifted back to mine. “Don’t.”
I went still.
He closed his eyes for half a second, then opened them again. “Not like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know exactly like what.”
“I’m sorry,” I replied with downcast eyes, but even that sounded too breathless and far too aware.
Callum exhaled and sat back, dragging one hand over his jaw. The movement made his rolled sleeve shift higher on his forearm, and because I was apparently committed to self-destruction, I looked. His hand lowered and he caught me looking.
Neither of us spoke.
The look that passed between us then was not confused. It was not accidental. It was not one-sided, not anymore. We both knew. I wanted him, he wanted me, and the knowledge had entered the room without knocking and taken a seat at the table.
For one wild second, I thought he might stand.
I thought he might walk around the table, close the distance, tip my chin up with those capable fingers, and make every forbidden thought I’d had since the charity dinner suddenly real.
I might let him. I thought, with a shameful little rush of heat, that I might do more than let him, like rise to meet him, or put my hands on his shirt and find out whether his restraint had a pulse.
Then his phone buzzed and the sound cracked the moment clean down the middle.
Callum looked at it. The change in him was immediate and brutal. His eyes scanned the screen, and whatever he saw pulled him back into the crisis waiting outside the door.
“Damn it,” he rumbled.
“Is it bad?”
“It’s irritating.”
“That sounds like executive for bad.”
“That sounds like me choosing not to discuss an active company matter with a first-day employee over lunch.”
The words should have stung, and they did, just a little, but I heard what was underneath them too. It was a return to proper structure, to our roles as boss and employee.
“Right,” I said. “Distance.”
His expression softened for one dangerous second. “Avery.”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Is it?”
I looked down at my uneaten salad. “I’m trying to decide whether to lie.”
“Don’t.”
The firmness in his voice sent another flicker through me, quieter now but persistent.
I looked back at him. “It’s not fine.”
He held my gaze for a long moment. My thighs pressed together under the table before I could stop them.
He glanced down at my hands, then up to see the blush come back.
He saw how one look from him could rearrange my breathing.
When he met my gaze again, there was heat in his eyes so restrained that it nearly undid me.
“This is going to be a problem,” I whispered.
“Yes,” he whispered back.
My heart pounded so hard it felt visible.
“What do we do?” I asked.
“We behave like adults.”
I almost laughed. “That’s your whole plan?”
“For now.”
“For now,” I repeated, trying not to let my disappointment show.
Then he leaned forward and cleared his throat. “Listen to me.”
I did.
God help me, I did.
“You are going to go back to new employee training,” he commanded.
“You are going to pay attention. You are going to ace every test they give you, even the insultingly obvious cybersecurity quiz. You are going to ask Benjamin questions when you need help. You are going to take Dana seriously. You are not going to pout because your first day is boring or because I am unavailable. You are not going to look for special treatment, and you are not going to make me regret giving you a place here.”
The words should have embarrassed me and they did, but they also made my body go soft and hot with need. I hated how much I liked being told exactly what was expected of me. I hated that his voice made instruction feel intimate. I hated that I liked all of it.
“Yes, sir,” I responded. My own words made my core clench.
He froze and his eyes locked on mine. “Say it properly, young lady.”
My mouth went dry.
The room seemed to tilt.
I knew he was doing it on purpose this time. He had seen what his firmness did to me, and for one brief, dangerous moment, he let himself use it.
I should have pushed back.
Instead, I said, “I won’t pout. I’ll take the training seriously. I’ll ace the tests. I won’t expect special treatment. Sir.”
His gaze darkened by a fraction.
“And?” he asked.
My pulse jumped. “And I won’t make you regret giving me a place here.”
The silence after that felt like it was buzzing with electricity. Callum looked at me as if the distance between us had become a measurable structural failure. I could see him calculating it. Could see him choosing not to cross it. His hand flexed once against the table, then flattened.
“That’s better,” he said.
My core fluttered so hard I had to look away.
The phone buzzed again, and this time he stood. The movement broke whatever spell had held us at the table. He picked up the phone, glanced at the screen, then looked back at me.
“I have to go.”
“Okay.”
“Benjamin will take you back.”
“Of course.”
He started toward the door, then stopped with his hand on the knob. For a second, he did not turn around. When he spoke, his voice was lower.
“Avery.”
“Yes?”
He looked back at me then, but not like my godfather and not like my boss, though both of those men were still there. He looked at me like a man who knew precisely what and how much he wanted and had decided, for the moment, to survive wanting it.
“No more pouting.”
Heat climbed my throat. “Yes, Mr. Rowe.”
For half a second, he looked as if he might come back to the table.
Instead, he opened the door. Benjamin stood on the other side with his tablet raised, one eyebrow lifted in a way that suggested he had either heard nothing and judged everything or heard everything and was composing a will.
“Splendid,” Ben gushed dryly. “No one is on fire.”
“Take Avery back to training,” Callum ordered.
“Is she still intact?”
“Benjamin.”
“I ask for HR purposes.”
“I’m intact,” I called, though my voice sounded less convincing than I would have liked.
Ben looked at me, then at Callum, then back at me.
“Hmm.” Somehow this also sounded dry.
That one syllable contained a congressional inquiry.
Callum’s phone rang. He answered it as he stepped past us, already switching into crisis mode. “No, Marcus. They do not get to frame this as a safety question without evidence. Put Tom on the line.”
And then he was gone, down the hall, leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne, two uneaten salads, and me, standing in his office with my pulse still throbbing between my legs.
Benjamin stared at me.
I stared back.
Finally, he said, “Lunch was restorative, I trust.”
“Don’t.”
“I said nothing.”
“Ben.”
His gaze softened by the smallest possible degree. “Are you alright?”
That surprised me enough that I stopped bristling.
“Yes.”
“Do you know where the nearest bathroom is?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You may take five minutes to look haunted in private. Then you will return to cybersecurity training and learn why USB drives are the devil’s tools.”
I blinked at him.
“What?” he said.
“That was almost nice.”
“An unfortunate lapse. Tell no one.”
I smiled without meaning to.
He pointed down the hall with his tablet. “Five minutes. Not six. If you cry, reapply whatever face product prevents people from asking questions. If you do not cry, still splash cold water on yourself. You look like a Victorian who has seen an ankle.”
“Ben!”
“Go.”
So I went. In the bathroom, I locked myself in a stall, sat down fully clothed, and pressed both hands over my face. My body was still humming.
This was not a crush anymore.
This was not a private fantasy kept safely in bed or whispered to Jules over fries.
This was mutual.