Chapter 18 Nico
Nico
Two days.
Forty-eight hours of absolute fucking torture.
I’m sitting at my desk pretending to read some bullshit report while my brain replays the same three seconds on loop. Her mouth on mine. The sound she made when I pulled her against me. The way she pushed me away like I was contaminated.
How is that even possible? When the day before I fucked her in her apartment? How could she be so cold to me?
The report blurs into focus again. Something about operating margins. I don’t give a shit about operating margins right now.
What I give a shit about is the woman sitting twelve feet away on the other side of my glass walls, typing on her laptop like nothing happened. Like she didn’t kiss me back with her whole goddamn body before shoving me off and practically running out of my office.
I’ve been cold to her in return since that night.
Ice cold.
Arctic fucking tundra cold.
It’s the only way.
Because if I’m not cold, if I let even one degree of warmth slip through, I’m going to do something I can’t take back.
Something worse than following her across Manhattan like a deranged stalker.
Something like telling her that I think about her constantly.
That the taste of her mouth has ruined coffee for me.
That I’ve replayed fucking her so many times my hand’s getting tired.
Christ.
I force my eyes back to the report. Read the same sentence four times. Give up.
Fuck this.
I might as well stay home from work for the next month.
Or longer.
Through the glass, I watch her stand and gather her laptop. She’s wearing that cream blouse today, the one that gaps slightly between the third and fourth buttons when she moves. I’ve been staring at that gap all morning like a goddamn pervert.
She’s heading toward my office.
My pulse kicks up despite every attempt to control it.
Pathetic.
I’m a grown man, a billionaire CEO.
Not some teenage kid spotting his crush in the cafeteria.
Bree opens my door without knocking.
That’s new.
Bold of her.
Why the fuck does that turn me on?
“Mr. Rossi, I need to discuss the calendar for next week.” She closes the door behind her.
The air in the room changes instantly. Charges up like a defibrillator preparing to shock. Her eyes meet mine and I see something there. Determination. Nerves. Something she wants to say.
Say it.
Whatever it is, just fucking say it.
Her mouth opens. Closes. She glances at my desk, then the window, then anywhere but me.
“Actually, I need to check something in my emails first.” And then she’s gone before I can respond.
What the fuck was that?
An hour later, she does it again. Walks in, shuts the door, stands there looking like she’s about to confess to murder. Then mumbles something about a donor call and practically sprints back to her desk.
I’m going to lose my fucking mind.
The afternoon crawls. I snap at Elspeth during a budget review. Ignore three calls from Martin Hale. Stare at Bree through the glass walls until Cressida catches me and I have to pretend I was looking at something else.
By seven o’clock, the floor is empty. Just the hum of the HVAC and the distant sounds of the cleaning crew.
And her.
She’s still at her desk. Still typing. Still not leaving.
I know why. Same reason I’m not leaving. We’re both waiting for something neither of us will admit we want.
I order pizza because I haven’t eaten all day and my hands are starting to shake and I’m getting that lack-of-food headache. Also because if I have to watch her through the glass for one more hour without some kind of distraction, I’m going to walk out there and do something stupid.
The pizza arrives. Callahan brings it up personally. He’s been giving me knowing looks for days now. The kind that say I see what’s happening and I’m professionally obligated to pretend I don’t.
I eat at my desk. Callahan heads toward the elevator banks, disappears.
That’s when she walks in again.
She closes the door behind her and stands there, and crosses her arms over her chest. “We need to talk.”
“Uh huh,” I keep eating my pizza. Not actually believing that she’s going to say anything important. Least of all what’s on her mind.
Probably will give an excuse about having to check her email again.
She swallows hard. “I want to talk about why you’ve been treating me colder than usual.”
I freeze.
Oh.
I set my pizza aside, and say, carefully, “I’ve been treating you professionally.”
“Professionally?” She laughs humorlessly. “You’ve spoken maybe thirty words to me since that night. You stare at me all day, but the moment we’re in the same room, you won’t even look at me. And you send emails instead of walking ten feet to my desk.”
“That’s called maintaining workplace boundaries, Ms. Dawson.”
“Don’t do that.” Her voice cracks slightly. “Don’t hide behind formality when we both know what happened.”
I stand up from my desk. Move toward her. Watch her shoulders tense but she doesn’t step back.
“What happened,” I say slowly, “is that you pushed me away. You made it crystal clear that you didn’t want this. Whatever this is. So I’m giving you exactly what you asked for.”
“I didn’t...” She looks down. Swallows. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“You pushed me away and walked out. What exactly was I supposed to interpret from that?”
Her jaw tightens. “I got scared, okay? It was happening so fast and I panicked and I put my walls up and I didn’t mean to push you away but I did and then you went all glacier on me and I thought maybe I’d ruined everything and maybe you actually hated me and I didn’t know what to do so I kept trying to talk to you but every time I came in here I lost my nerve because you were looking at me like I was a stranger and I can’t do this, Nico, I can’t work here if you’re going to treat me like I’m a nobody when all I can think about is you. ”
The words come out of her like a dam breaking.
She’s breathing hard.
Her eyes are wet but she’s not crying.
Not quite.
Something inside me cracks open.
“You think I hate you?” My voice comes out rough. “Bree, I’ve been cold because it’s the only way I can control myself around you. The only way I can stop myself from doing things I won’t be able to stop.”
“What things?” she squeaks.
I step closer. Close enough to see her pulse hammering in her throat.
“Things like pushing you up against that glass wall and finishing what we started. Things like locking that door and keeping you in here until neither of us can walk. Things like telling you that I haven’t been able to think straight since the gala and every time you walk past my office I want to drag you inside and make you scream my name. ”
Her breath catches.
“Maybe I want that,” she whispers.
I go still. “What?”
“Maybe I want you to stop controlling yourself.” She meets my eyes. No more walls. Just raw, terrified honesty. “Maybe I want you to do all those things and more and I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”
I move before my brain catches up.
One hand smashes the smart glass panel. The walls go opaque, blocking out the empty office, the city lights, everything except her.
“Bree.” Her name comes out like a warning. “If I kiss you right now, I’m not stopping. You understand? I won’t be able to stop. Two days ago, I stopped. But tonight, I won’t. I can’t. Is that clear?”
“Then don’t,” she says simply.
I close the distance between us. Cup her face in my hands. Her skin is warm and soft and she’s looking up at me like I’m something worth wanting and I’m done.
Fucking done pretending.
I slam my mouth against hers.
This time, she doesn’t run.
Her mouth opens under mine and she makes that sound, that perfect desperate sound, and I’m undone.