Chapter 10
Chapter ten
~DONOVAN~
By Wednesday morning, I walk into Titan like I own the place.
It’s a good thing that I actually do.
Because, honestly, it’s the only way to disguise the fact that I spent the last thirty-six hours thinking about a kiss.
One kiss. On a Manhattan sidewalk. With an employee.
I am a grown man. A CEO. A founder of a billion-dollar tech firm. I’ve managed boardroom coups, hostile acquisitions, and billion-dollar breakdowns in the middle of international flights.
And somehow, it’s a woman nearly half my age and three floors below me who’s got me walking around like I need a goddamn cold shower and a therapist.
I make it until 11:03 AM before everything goes to hell. Because at at exactly 11:05AM, Emma Sinclair walks into the strategy meeting for reviewing Q3 projections, looking like she hasn't slept in days.
She's pale. There are dark circles under her eyes that even makeup can't completely hide. And when Carmen asks her a question about the market analysis, she takes a full five seconds to respond—which for Emma, who usually processes information at the speed of light, is concerning.
"Emma?" Carmen prompts gently. "The customer acquisition metrics?"
"Right. Sorry." Emma blinks, refocusing on her tablet. "CAC is trending at forty-two dollars, which is within our projected range. LTV ratios support continued investment in paid channels."
The answer is correct, but her delivery is off. Flat. Like she's reading from a script instead of actually engaging with the data.
Logan catches my eye from across the table and raises an eyebrow. I respond with the slightest shake of my head.
Not now.
The meeting continues, but I'm only half-listening. The other half of my attention is on Emma, cataloging every detail that seems wrong.
She's not taking notes—Emma always takes notes.
She's barely touched her coffee—Emma lives on coffee.
And when David makes a terrible joke about market volatility, she doesn't even crack a smile—Emma laughs at everything, even when she's trying not to.
Something is off. And I fucking hate not knowing what it is.
"Alright," Carmen says, closing her laptop. "I think that covers everything. Emma, can you send me the updated deck by Wednesday?"
"Of course." Emma stands, gathering her things with jerky, distracted movements. "I'll have it to you by tomorrow."
“Friday is fine—"
"Tomorrow," Emma repeats firmly, then walks out before Carmen can argue.
The room empties, a slow exodus of voices and heels and muted Slack pings.
All except for Logan, who lingers in the doorway like a shark in tailored wool, arms crossed, that signature smirk of his already loaded and locked.
“So,” he drawls. “Want to talk about whatever the hell that was?”
“Nope.” I don’t look up.
“Come on. Emma’s looking like she mainlined anxiety for breakfast, and you look like you want to follow her out and throw your wallet at whatever’s hurting her.”
I glare at him. “Nothing happened.”
Logan’s brows shoot up. “That’s your ‘something absolutely happened but I’m going to deny it until I combust’ voice.”
“I don’t have a voice like that.”
He whistles. “Shit. You kissed her again, didn’t you?”
I say nothing.
Logan lets out a low laugh. “You kissed the strategist. The one with the legs and the big ideas and the ‘Donovan, you’re not as subtle as you think’ eyes.”
“For your information…” I lean back in my chair, deadpan. “She kissed me.”
“Oh, well that changes everything,” he says, sauntering further into the room. “I assume it was a very dry, emotionless, HR-approved kiss.”
“It was a lapse, I admit. A step back.”
“A step back you’ve been replaying in high-def in that thick head of yours?”
“I’ve got a company to run, Logan. I don’t have time to obsess over a kiss.”
“Suuuure. Which explains the way you’ve been staring at her like she’s a proprietary algorithm you can’t crack.” He drops into the seat across from me. “Donovan. You’re losing your grip. And from the look of it, so is she.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I know.”
“You want to know what to do? Try talking to her. Preferably using words. Preferably soon.”
“And say what? ‘Hey Emma, you’re looking a little peaked—was it the kiss or the fact that my dick can’t stay in one place when you’re around?’”
He snorts. “God, you’re rusty at this. Start with empathy. End with honesty. Sprinkle in a little Donovan Titan custom charm.”
I shoot him a look.
“What?” he says, completely unbothered. “You’re basically the sexual fantasy of half the boardroom. Use it.”
I shake my head. “This is a disaster.”
“No,” Logan says, standing. “This is your first real feeling in a decade. Stop treating it like a liability.”
He’s gone before I can formulate a comeback—probably for the best, since I’m one pointed comment away from hurling a paperweight.
But damn it, he’s right.
Again.
Unable to get Logan’s words out of my head, I try my best to formulate a plan. A plan to address this situation head on.
But two hours later, no progress has been made. I’ve read the same email five times.
Correction: I’ve pretended to read it.
What I’ve actually been doing is obsessing over camera feed twelve, which just so happens to cover the thirty-seventh floor break room. Where Emma is. Again.
I’m still figuring out how the hell a head of a company can even defend doing the shit that I’ve done.
Maybe I can start a defense by pulling my newest hire aside and saying something like:
“It’s not my fault. It’s yours—your responsibility for being so damn gorgeous and funny and hardworking that it drives me insane.”
“It’s a reflex. After Miami, my tongue keeps trying to revert back to its original position between your thighs.”
“And yes, I am sorry for the dirty things I said to you after the dinner meeting. It’s a clinical thing. I plan on taking medications, and possibly getting injections because every time I’m around you, I want to take off your clothes and worship every inch of your soft skin with my mouth.”
Taking another peek at the cameras, I tell myself it’s strategy—intel, that I’m just gathering information before making a move. But my secretary Margaret’s knowing side-eyes and conveniently timed coffee refills suggest otherwise.
By four PM, I’ve lost the ability to rationalize. With the only plan I can think of forming, I leave my office and head the three floors down, half-hoping she’s still there.
She is.
Back turned, shoulders tight, she’s cradling a mug of pure black coffee like it’s the last remaining source of warmth in her world when I step inside.
“That coffee machine's seen a lot of things,” I gesture, “but your death glare might finally do it in.”
She startles and turns. “Jesus, Mr. Titan.”
“Don.” I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “We’re alone. You can use my name.”
Her mouth parts, like she wants to argue, hazel eyes turning to saucers.
“Don.” My name coming from her mouth is a breathy murmur, like she’s tasting something forbidden. “You startled me.”
“I noticed.” I push off the frame and stroll closer. “And I noticed you’ve been off today.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” I gesture at her grip on the mug. “You’re white-knuckling your caffeine like it’s going to solve your problems.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“And I said you’re not.” I lower my voice. “Talk to me, Emma.”
“It’s all good, I promise.” She hesitates, those long lashes fluttering against the top of her cheeks. She looks up when I don’t respond. “Really. It’s not about work. Or Friday. It’s just... personal.”
I let the silence linger, allowing her to fill it.
“I’m not sleeping,” she finally says. “I’m distracted. And I’m trying really, really hard not to think about things I shouldn’t be thinking about.”
“Like the way I kissed you?”
She goes still, fingers tightening around the mug. “That’s not helping.”
“Not trying to help. I’m trying to be honest.” I take one more step, invading her space just enough that she has to look up. “You’ve been in my head all weekend. You walk into a room and everything else becomes irrelevant. I’m not proud of it, but there it is.”
“Mr. Titan—”
I arch a brow.
“Don,” she corrects quickly.
“You think I don’t notice the way your lips part when you’re about to argue with me? That you smell like citrus and sunshine and hell on my self-control?” I lean in slightly. “I’m not blind, Emma. And I’m definitely not immune.”
She shudders. Just a flicker. But I catch it.
“Why are you telling me this?” she whispers.
“Because pretending not to want you hasn’t worked. And because I’ve got a proposal.”
Her brow furrows.
“Come to Chicago with me.”
Her mouth opens, then shuts. “What?”
“There’s an investor presentation next week. I need someone who can handle pressure. Who understands the product better than anyone. Someone sharp, strategic…” I let the pause stretch. “Distractingly beautiful is optional, but you qualify there too.”
Her flush is immediate. “You’re insane.”
“Not yet. But you’re not helping.”
“Don, you know this is beyond reckless. And borderline inappropriate.”
“And smart. Took me several hours to make a decision, but I have. And this is the best plan I could come up with.” I lower my voice. “I’m not asking you to share a hotel room, Emma. I’m asking you to help me close a deal. What happens before or after is entirely up to you.”
“And if I say yes?”
“Then we go. We work. We win.” I pause. “And maybe, once the deal is closed, we stop pretending we’re not two adults who want to see what happens behind closed doors.”
Her breath hitches, her pink lips parting by just a fraction. Her teeth dig into her bottom lip, and I almost groan.
“And if it all blows up in our faces?” she whispers.
I step even closer, so close the citrus on her skin hits me like a drug. “Then we rebuild. I don’t scare easy.”
Her golden-green eyes search mine.
“Okay,” she finally says. “But you promise me—no favoritism. No career fallout. I worked hard to be here.”
“You’ve got my word.” I mean it. “You earned this. And I won’t let anything change that.”
“Then I guess we’re going to Chicago.”
“Separate rooms?” I ask, voice rich with suggestion.
“Separate floors,” she fires back.
I grin. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
She rolls her eyes—but she’s smiling now. She turns toward the door, then glances back.
“Don?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. For noticing.”
Before I can say something smart—and definitely inappropriate—she’s gone.
And I’m left standing in the break room like a man who just lit a fuse and smiled at the spark.