Chapter 8 #2
"Which was?" Logan asks, leaning forward with genuine curiosity.
For a moment, I think she's not going to answer. Then she says, "Proving to myself that I could."
There's a story there. I can feel it.
And suddenly, I want to know everything.
Every detail.
Every reason she felt like she had something to prove.
Logan catches my expression and his smirk widens. I return his glance with one that promises retribution later.
The conversation shifts to industry trends, and I watch Emma navigate it with the same grace she's shown all night. She's in her element here—strategic thinking, market analysis, anticipating objections before they're raised.
When the server brings out the main course—some elaborate preparation of beef, pureed potatoes and brussel sprouts—our hands reach for the wine bottle at the same time, our fingers brushing.
Electricity immediately shoots up my arm.
Emma's eyes snap to mine, and I see the same shock reflected back.
"Sorry," she says, pulling back quickly.
I don't apologize.
Instead, I wrap my hand around the bottle and pour her wine with intentional slowness, holding her gaze the entire time.
"Thank you," she says, voice slightly breathless.
"My pleasure."
Logan clears his throat. "Richard, you were saying about market volatility?"
Richard launches into something about quarterly projections, but I'm only half-listening because Emma's shifted in her seat and her knee brushes mine under the table.
She freezes. I don't move away.
Instead, I press back—just slightly.
Just enough to let her know it wasn't an accident, that I felt it too, that I'm done pretending I don't want to touch her.
Her breath hitches, barely audible, but I catch it.
She shifts again, creating distance, but the message has been sent and received.
"Don?" Logan's voice cuts through my thoughts, deliberately using my nickname. "You agree, right?"
"About?" I have no idea what we're discussing.
Logan's grin is evil. "About accelerating the beta testing timeline. Richard suggested it."
Beta testing. Right.
I force myself to focus, to contribute intelligently to the conversation, to stop thinking about Emma's knee and her laugh and the way she keeps stealing glances at me when she thinks no one's watching.
"The timeline is aggressive but manageable," I say, voice steady and authoritative—the CEO voice that's closed a thousand deals. "Emma's built in contingencies. We move forward, but carefully."
"Spoken like a man who's made a career out of calculated risks," Richard says approvingly.
Logan's eyes gleam. "Oh, Donovan's excellent at calculating risk. Especially lately."
I'm going to kill him.
By the time dessert arrives—some architectural masterpiece involving chocolate and gold leaf—I'm ready to escape.
But Richard orders another round of drinks, and Michael wants to discuss partnership terms in more detail, and Carmen is expertly guiding the conversation toward a close.
And I'm stuck across from Emma, watching her lick chocolate off her spoon in a way that should be illegal.
"This has been wonderful," Richard says finally, checking his watch. "But I have an early flight tomorrow. Shall we continue this conversation next week?"
"Absolutely." I stand, offering my hand. "Emma will send over the updated projections Monday."
"Looking forward to it." Richard turns to Emma. "You're doing excellent work. Titan is lucky to have you."
"Thank you." Emma's smile is genuine. "I appreciate the opportunity."
We say our goodbyes—Carmen heading out with Richard and Michael to discuss logistics, Logan making excuses about an early morning meeting that we both know is bullshit.
Which leaves Emma and me alone in the restaurant's entrance.
"That went well," she says, pulling out her phone. "I think they're ready to commit."
"Thanks to you." I nod toward the door. "Let me call you a car."
"I can take the subway—"
"No." The word comes out rough. A rasp. "It's eleven PM. You're not taking the subway.”
Emma's eyes flash—surprised, maybe, or aroused. Possibly both. “You really don’t like me taking the subway, do you?”
“I really fucking don’t.” I pull out my phone and request a car, then we step outside into the humid night air.
The city is alive around us.
Tourists taking photos. Couples holding hands. A street performer playing saxophone somewhere in the distance.
We stand there in silence, waiting, the warm air made hotter with each second that passes.
"You were incredible tonight," I say finally, voice low.
"I was doing my job."
"You were commanding a table full of men twice your age with twice your experience." I turn to face her. "Richard was impressed. Michael was taking notes. You earned their respect in two hours."
"That's what I'm here for."
"Emma." I say her first name—a rarity, stepping closer as she tilts her head back to look at me. "Take the compliment."
"Why? So you can feel better about wanting me?"
The honesty catches me off guard.
"I don't need to feel better about wanting you," I say. "I know I want you. I've known since Miami.”
“I see. And I know we agreed—"
"I know what we agreed." I'm close enough now that I could touch her if I wanted to. "Professional boundaries. Appropriate distance. I’m not a fucking idiot, Emma.”
She blinks. “Of course. I never meant to insinuate that—“
“Insinuate what?” I take a step closer and watch as her lips part softly. “That I want to fuck you three ways from Sunday? That I’d give my left arm to hear you scream my name again, like you did in Miami?”
Her chest is heaving at this point, her beautiful breasts rising and falling fast.
"Yes." The word comes out shaky. "All of that."
“I’ve kept my distance, Ms. Sinclair. Barely.”
Her breath catches. “You don’t look like someone who’s barely keeping anything, Donovan.”
“Then you’re not paying attention.”
A car horn blares nearby, breaking the spell, and she steps back, smoothing her dress with trembling hands. "I should go."
“Not yet.” I catch her wrist, and her pulse jumps under my fingers. “Not until we acknowledge this.”
“Acknowledge what?
“That Miami wasn’t enough.” My hand slides from her wrist to her waist. “That I’m done pretending these last two weeks of ‘distance’ fixed a damn thing. That every time you walk into a room, it takes everything in me not to drag you out of it.”
“Donovan…”
“And that you’re thinking about what happens next.”
Her honey-colored eyes burn into mine, molten and terrified and wanting. “And what happens next?”
Before I can answer, a sleek black town car pulls up.
Of course.
“Your car,” I say, letting my hand fall away even though every instinct tells me to grab her again.
“Donovan, we can’t—”
“I know all the reasons we can’t.” I open the door for her, my voice low and steady. “But I’m running out of reasons why we shouldn’t.”
She looks at me like she wants to argue.
But then she rises onto her toes and kisses me.
And nothing about it is soft. Hesitant.
It’s a release. A confession.
Two weeks of pressure detonating between our mouths.
I groan into her, one hand sliding to the back of her neck, the other gripping her waist and pulling her flush against me. Her fingers clutch my suit jacket, nails biting through the fabric as her lips part for me, as she opens willingly.
I deepen the kiss—slow, consuming, exactly the way I’ve been dreaming of every fucking night since Miami.
I take control because she lets me, because she wants me to, because this—this—is the version of us that feels right.
She makes a quiet, desperate sound in her throat.
The kind of sound a man keeps. The kind he memorizes and lives on for months.
The kind that turns my cock into pure steel.
Hard and throbbing, my thumb grazes her jawline, tilting her where I want her, guiding her mouth with a mastery I can’t restrain, and everything about my little strategist is soft.
Warm.
Hungry.
As for me…I’m seconds from pushing her against the car and forgetting every boundary we’ve spent two miserable weeks pretending to care about.
A door slams nearby—another couple leaving the restaurant, and immediately, we tear apart, breathing hard, foreheads almost touching.
Emma sighs softly, her lips just inches from my mouth. “Well, that was—“
“Inevitable,” I finish, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear, my thumb trailing her cheek. “And I don’t regret a second of it.”
“We work together,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“You’re my boss.”
“I’m quite aware of that, too.” I step back before I say something I can’t take back. “Get in the car, Emma.”
She lingers for a heartbeat—like she wants me to stop her again—then slides inside. The driver asks for her address, and she gives it—West Village, I note automatically.
Before the driver can pull away, I lean down to her window.
"Emma?"
She looks up at me, lips still swollen from our kiss, hazel eyes questioning.
"This conversation isn't over."
"I know." She touches her mouth. "But it should be."
"Probably." I step back. "But I don't think either of us wants it to be."
The car pulls away, taking her with it.
And I stand there on the sidewalk outside Ampersand, tie loosened, tasting her on my lips, admitting something I've been avoiding for weeks.
This isn't just attraction. And it damn sure is more than just unfinished business from Miami.
This is something that could actually fucking matter.
Something that’s starting to feel more and more worth the risk.
My phone buzzes.
Logan, of course.
LOGAN: So. That was interesting.
I type back.
ME: What was?
LOGAN: Watching you try not to eye-fuck your strategist for three straight hours
ME: I wish I knew another language to say ‘fuck off’ in. English isn’t enough at this point
LOGAN: "You've got it bad, Don. Like, really bad. Like, might actually do something stupid bad
I look up at the city lights, thinking about Emma's smile, her wit and brilliance, the softness of her body against mine.
ME: Maybe stupid is worth it
LOGAN: Oh shit. You're serious
ME: Yeah. I think I am
A few seconds later…
LOGAN: Well. This is going to be entertaining
I pocket my phone and head for my own car, knowing that everything just changed.
And for the first time since Miami, I'm not entirely sure that's a bad thing.
Even if it should be.
Even if it could cost us both everything.
Because Emma Sinclair isn't just another employee.
She's become the one thing I can't afford to want…and can't seem to stop wanting anyway.
And I'm done pretending otherwise.