6. Zane
Chapter 6
Zane
T he apartment is quiet when I get back, the kind of stillness that's usually a comfort. But tonight, it feels different. Hollow, somehow. Like the space itself is mocking my solitude.
I kick off my shoes, shrugging out of my jacket, and head to the kitchen to pour myself a drink. The crystal decanter catches the city lights as I pull it from the shelf—a gift from some investor or another, probably. I can't remember. Most of my life feels like that these days, expensive but meaningless, collected more out of obligation than desire.
The bourbon burns on the way down, warming me from the inside out, but it doesn't do much to quiet the thoughts swirling in my head. I remove my tie, unbuttoning my collar as I walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows that line my living room.
Tessa Marlow. Of all the people to show up back in my life, she's the last one I expected. And yet, seeing her there felt like… like a reminder of something I've been trying to forget. Of a time when I wasn't so damn closed off, when I actually let myself hope for more than just numbers and business deals.
"Fuck," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. Even now, hours after I’ve left her presence, I can still smell her perfume— vanilla and something else, something warm and inviting. Like freshly baked cookies or Sunday mornings. It's driving me crazy.
I lean against the window, pressing my forehead to the cool glass as I watch the snow falling over the city. The streets below are starting to empty, but a few hardy souls are still out there, hurrying through the storm with their collars turned up against the wind. I wonder if Tessa made it home okay. If she's thinking about our conversation too.
She said I could find her if I wanted to take a chance, but she doesn't get it. Taking a chance means opening up, letting someone in, and I've learned the hard way that letting people in just leads to disappointment. It's easier to keep things simple, to focus on work, to keep the rest of the world at arm's length.
But then I think about her smile, the way she didn't flinch when I pushed back. The way she looked at me like I was worth knowing, worth fighting for. And something inside me shifts, loosens, just a little.
The memory of high school floods back—watching her from across the cafeteria, always surrounded by friends but somehow making time for everyone. Even the outcasts, the loners. Even me, though I never gave her the chance to get close.
I'd see her in the library sometimes, studying late after cheerleading practice. She'd have her hair pulled up in a messy ponytail, her pom-poms stuffed in her backpack like she was trying to hide that part of herself. Like she wanted people to see beyond the peppy cheerleader facade.
I did see beyond it. That was the problem.
"Christ," I mutter, downing the rest of my drink. "Get it together, Mercer."
I pour another drink, moving to sit on the leather couch that dominates my living room. It's pristine, barely used, like most things in this apartment. Sometimes I wonder why I even bothered furnishing the place. It's not like I entertain, not like I bring people home.
But the memories keep coming, unbidden and unwanted. The way she used to watch me in the halls, thinking I didn't notice. The way she'd sometimes leave a coffee on my desk before first period—never saying anything, just leaving it there like some kind of peace offering. I never drank them, but I wanted to.
I let my eyes drift closed as memories of earlier today play out in my mind. Her cute attitude, her quick wit and sharp tongue. It’s not long before I’m drifting off to sleep with a smile on my face, thanks to Tessa fucking Marlow.
I've been staring at the same spreadsheet for twenty minutes, thinking about how Tessa's going to look in those damn glasses. It's pathetic. I'm pathetic.
"You're here early," Asher says, leaning against my office doorframe with a knowing smirk. "Eager for something?"
"Don't start."
"Nine a.m. meeting, right?" He checks his watch. "Still forty-five minutes to go. But who's counting?"
I glare at him. "Don't you have work to do?"
"This is my work. Watching my grumpy older brother squirm while waiting for?—"
"Mr. Mercer?" my assistant's voice cuts in through the intercom. "Miss Marlow is here early. Should I send her up?"
My heart actually skips. Fucking hell.
"Yes," I say, too quickly based on Asher's grin. "Send her up."
"Have fun," he singsongs, ducking out just as the elevator doors ding.
And there she is.
The glasses are perched on her nose, making her blue eyes seem bigger, brighter. Her honey-blond hair is swept up in some kind of twist that exposes her neck, a few delicate tendrils hanging down. The gray pencil skirt and white blouse are perfectly professional, except for the way they hug every curve.
Goddamn, I want to rip her out of that, run my tongue along every single curve ? —
"You're early," I manage, standing.
"So are you." She sets her bag on my desk, those blue eyes sparkling behind the frames. "Eager to check my numbers, Mr. Mercer?"
The way she says my name shouldn't affect me this much. "Just being thorough."
"Hmm." She perches on the edge of my desk, crossing her legs. The skirt rides up just slightly, exposing a delicious sliver of her bare skin. "Then let's be thorough."
She pulls out her reports, and I force myself to focus on the papers rather than how close she's sitting. How good she smells. How those glasses make her look like every librarian fantasy I never knew I had.
"Your Q3 projections," I say roughly. "Walk me through them."
"Of course." She slides closer, pointing to a chart. Her perfume—that sweet, sultry fucking perfume—wraps around me. "As you can see, we're anticipating a fifteen percent growth rate…"
I try to listen. I really do. But she keeps adjusting those damn glasses, keeps biting her lip while she explains things. Keeps existing in my space like she belongs there.
"Are you even listening?" she asks softly.
"What?"
"I just said we're planning to sell unicorn tears, and you nodded."
"I'm listening."
"Really?" She turns to face me fully, still perched on my desk. "What did I just say about our cost analysis?"
"You…" I trail off, caught in her knowing smile.
"That's what I thought." She leans forward slightly. "Distracted, Mr. Mercer?"
"You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what?" She shrugs, pure innocence behind those frames.
"Playing with fire," I growl.
"Am I?" She adjusts her glasses again, and I snap.
My hand shoots out, catching her wrist. "Stop that."
"Stop what?" Her pulse races under my fingers.
"The glasses thing. The desk thing. All of it."
"Make me."
The challenge in her voice hits me low in the gut. I step between her legs, still holding her wrist. "Careful, Miss Marlow."
"Or what?" She doesn't back down, just tilts her chin up. "You'll finally do something about this tension between us?"
"There is no tension."
"No?" She slides forward slightly. "Then why are you still holding my wrist?"
I release her instantly, stepping back. "This is inappropriate."
"What's inappropriate is how long you've been fighting this." She stands, following me. "How long we've been dancing around each other."
"Tessa—"
"Tell me you don't feel it too." She's close now, too close. "Tell me I'm imagining things."
"You're not imagining it," I admit roughly. "But that doesn't make it right."
"Why not?" She reaches up, straightening my tie. The casual intimacy of the gesture makes my chest tight. "Because I'm not that teenager anymore, Zane. I know what I want."
"And what's that?"
"You." Simple. Direct. Devastating. "I want you to stop pretending you don't want me too."
I catch her hand against my chest. "It's not that simple."
"It could be." She steps closer, and I let her. "If you'd just?—"
A knock at the door makes us jump apart. My assistant pokes her head in. "Mr. Mercer? Your ten o'clock is here."
"Thank you, Clara." My voice sounds strangled. "I'll be right out."
Tessa's already gathering her things, cheeks flushed. "I should go."
"Tessa—"
"No, it's fine." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Thank you for reviewing everything."
She's at the door when I call out, "Dinner."
She turns. "What?"
"Have dinner with me." The words rush out before I can stop them. "Tonight. Let me explain…"
"Explain why you keep running?" But she's smiling now. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Pick me up at eight." She adjusts those damn glasses one more time. "And Zane?"
"Yeah?"
"Wear something nice."
She's gone before I can respond, leaving me with the lingering scent of vanilla and the certainty that I'm completely, utterly screwed.
"Smooth," Asher says from the doorway. "Real smooth."
"Shut up."
"You know she planned all that, right? The glasses, the desk thing?—"
"I have a meeting."
"The way she?—"
"Goodbye, Asher."
His laughter follows me down the hall, along with the memory of Tessa's smile. Of her challenge.
Eight o'clock can't come fast enough.