8. Reece #2
“And that brings us to the Bradley acquisition,” Jen says from across the table, snapping my attention back. “We’re waiting on final language from their legal team, but they’re stalling.”
I nod. “Keep pressure on them. Loop in Curtis to push timelines if needed.”
Beside me, Skye straightens. “Sorry—who’s Curtis?”
Her tone is calm, even but curious. Engaged.
“Lead counsel,” I say. “Out of our Chicago office.”
“Got it.” She types something into her iPad, fast and precise.
She’s sharp. Present. The only person under forty in this room who actually listens more than they speak.
Maybe that’s what bothers me about her; she’s good, too good, and it doesn’t give me any room to be angry at her or pissed.
Instead, I’m stuck noticing all the little things about her that make me want to drown in her.
Fifteen minutes later, the meeting is wrapping. People stand. Stretch. Grab their laptops and start filtering out.
“Skye,” I say before I can think better of it. “Stay for a second.”
Her brows lift slightly. There’s no irritation in it. No surprise either. Just that unreadable calm I’m learning means she’s already five steps ahead of me.
“Sure.”
She waits until the room clears before shifting her chair slightly toward me. We’re alone now—except for the tension curling thick and quiet around us. It stretches between us like a trip wire, one we’ve both gotten far too comfortable stepping over.
I should thank her for keeping her cool. For shutting Leo down without making a scene. I should tell her I saw what she did and that it didn’t go unnoticed.
Instead, I say, “He was out of line.”
She doesn’t play dumb. Doesn’t pretend not to know who I mean.
“Leo’s not a bad guy,” she says carefully. “He just… likes to sound like the smartest one in the room. Especially when he’s not.”
“He implied you were a glorified admin,” I say, jaw tight. “And you laughed it off.”
“Because if I didn’t, it would’ve made it worse.” She shrugs. “If I shut him down too hard, I’d be the overcompensating assistant. If I let it slide completely, I lose credibility. So I laughed. Then corrected him with facts. That’s how women survive in rooms like this.”
My gut twists. “I don’t want you to have to survive here,” I confess. “I want you to lead.”
She stills slightly, her eyes on mine. And it hits me how much power she carries in silence.
“I’m not looking to be rescued, Reece,” she says softly. “I’m just trying to do my job.”
“I know.”
Another beat. The air sharpens again.
“You handled it well,” I say. “But next time he speaks to you like that, you shut it down. Publicly. You have my permission.”
“Thanks.” Her tone is even, but there’s something behind her eyes now. Something I can’t name yet. “But I don’t need permission to know my own worth.”
That makes me smile.
I drag in a breath to slow the thudding in my chest. “You’re not intimidated by anyone in this building,” I murmur, more to myself than her.
She smiles. “Should I be?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I am.” The words are out before I can stop them.
Her breath catches. Her eyes search mine, serious now. “Are you?”
I don’t know what I meant. That she should be afraid of what she’s waking up in me. That I’m afraid of how fast I’m slipping. Of how she’s already inside every breath, every beat, every fucking decision I make.
I don’t answer.
Instead, I rise and walk purposely around the table until I’m standing beside her chair. She doesn’t lean back. Doesn’t shrink. She tips her chin up, steady and unflinching, waiting.
I reach down and press my thumb against the edge of the tablet resting on her lap. Her fingers release it and I take it from her and set it on the table. Our hands brush, just a graze, but the contact is electric.
“You need to stop doing that,” I say quietly.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
Her voice is barely a whisper. “Like what?”
Like I’m a man and not her boss. Like she wants me to lose control. Like she knows she could take me apart with one look and maybe, just maybe, she wants to see if I’ll let her.
“Like you’re waiting for me to make a mistake,” I say.
She smiles, slow and wicked. “Maybe I am.”
I clench my jaw. Every nerve in my body is begging for release. For permission. But instead, I take a step back—just enough distance to remind myself who I’m supposed to be.
“We leave for Boston in a few days,” I say. “Start preparing the launch brief for Forrester. Jen will send you the deck.”
Her smile falters for just a second, but she covers it with a nod. “Yes, sir.”
Christ.
She stands up and grabs the tablet, tucking it under one arm, then walks toward the door but not without slowing just enough as she passes me. Her arm grazes the front of my shirt, the contact subtle but unmistakably intentional.
She pauses, right there in my space, and tilts her head up, eyes locking with mine. Calculated. Daring. A look that strips the last shred of professionalism from the air and sets something darker in its place.
“By the way, I checked the weather,” she says, voice low, silken. “Supposed to be hot and sticky in Boston next week.”
I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
Her lips curve, slow and satisfied, and then she walks out—leaving the scent of her perfume and the wreckage of my composure behind.
I wait until the door clicks shut before dragging a hand down my face and blowing out a breath.
She’s going to be the death of me. And I think, deep down, I want her to be.
The city outside my penthouse glows with a familiarity that leaves me feeling alone. I stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of bourbon in my hand, the window reflecting back a version of me I don’t recognize anymore.
My tie hangs loose, my hair mussed and my sleeves pushed up my forearms. My jaw is clenched so tight I can feel the tension buzzing behind my ears and the dull pain behind my eyes.
I haven’t relaxed a single bit since I got home. Didn’t turn on the lights when I walked in. Didn’t answer the text from Archer.
Archer: Dinner this week? You ’ re not allowed to ghost me forever, old man.
Didn’t eat. Didn’t even hang up my suit jacket. It’s draped over the back of the barstool where I left it, wrinkling by the second but I don’t care.
Because all I can see— all I can fucking see —is the way she looked at me across that table today. Bold. Curious. Completely fearless.
And then… the smile when I told her I was intimidated. Like she saw something in me no one else has in years. Like she wanted to reach out and unravel me.
I take a sip of the bourbon. It burns going down, but not nearly enough. The burn I need? It’s under my skin. It’s in the way I can’t stop picturing her thighs crossing as she leaned back in that chair… how her voice lowered when she asked, “Like what?”
You know damn well like fucking what. Like I want to fuck you within an inch of your life. Like you want me to tell you to crawl to me on all fours like the filthy fucking tease you are.
I could barely stand it. Could barely walk away. And now that I have, I feel like a man with a loaded gun and no idea where the safety is.
I walk to the kitchen, needing to move, needing to do something, but even the act of rinsing out my empty tumbler feels like a performance. In truth, a lot of my life has felt like a performance these last few years. I grip the edge of the marble counter until my knuckles go white.
It’s not just about wanting her. I could manage that. I’ve lived a decade without touching anyone in a way that meant something. I know how to function through ache. I know how to channel need into something useful.
But this? This is different. It’s not just need. It’s the danger of feeling awake again. Alive. And that scares the shit out of me.
Because when I let myself feel, really feel, I lose everything.
That’s what happened with Lauren. I let my guard down.
Gave her all of me. And then she was gone.
We thought we had it all, the happy family and beautiful home, but cancer had other plans.
It tore us apart and ravaged her body, leaving us both broken.
The only difference, Lauren got to leave her broken body behind but Archer and I… we had to live in ours, without her.
And after that, all I had was Archer. My only tether to her. My reason to keep moving, even when I didn’t want to. But I failed him, too. Not in the big dramatic ways, maybe, but in all the little ones. In all the ways that mattered.
I missed basketball games. Work consumed me. I didn’t know how to talk to a teenage boy who was grieving his mother and furious at the world. I gave him money. Structure. Silence.
Not love. Not the kind he needed anyway.
And now? Now he’s a man. And I’m standing here on the verge of ruining the last good thing between us because I can’t stop thinking about her.
His ex.
The girl who sat in my kitchen during Thanksgiving break all those years ago wearing Archer’s hoodie and pink fuzzy socks, laughing at some dumb joke about cranberry sauce. She used to look at him like he hung the stars.
Now she looks at me like I might burn the whole sky down. And I’m about two seconds from letting her hand me the matches.
I slam the bourbon glass down on the counter—hard enough to crack but not shatter. My breath is uneven. Shallow. I need to shut it down. Rein it in. I’ve done it before.
I head down the hall to the gym, the only part of this place that ever feels like mine. I strip off my dress shirt, leave it crumpled on the bench, and wrap my hands with the old boxing tape I’ve had for years. It’s worn, frayed, and starting to tear at the edges. Like me.
The first punch lands heavy. The second louder. The third sends pain ricocheting up my wrist—but I don’t stop. I just hit harder. Again. And again.
I think of her laugh. Her mouth. Her stubborn streak. Her fucking legs.
I think of Archer. Of Lauren. Of the way Skye’s eyes shimmered this morning in the kitchen when she whispered, “ I can be professional.”
God, I wish she couldn’t.
I slam my fist into the bag with everything I have left, body slick with sweat, chest heaving like I’ve been drowning for years and only now remembered how to breathe. I drop my arms and rest my forehead against the leather.
It smells like anger. Like grief I never dealt with. Yet I don’t cry. I haven’t in years. But my throat is tight, my pulse ragged. And the worst part is, I’m not even sure what I’m mourning right now.
Her?
Or the version of myself I used to be before she walked back into my life?
I peel off the tape, leave it on the floor, and walk toward the bathroom. The shower scalds my skin, but I don’t turn down the temperature. I let it sting. Let it ground me.
I tell myself over and over again, no more daydreams, no more lingering stares. No more pretending that this is something I can handle. Because it isn’t.
I roughly dry off, shove on a pair of black sweatpants, and walk back out into the dark apartment. No TV. No music. Just the hum of the fridge.
My phone is sitting on the bar. I stare at it like it might bite. Eventually I pick it up and open our text thread.
Me: You left your charger in the conference room. I have it.
I stare at the words, then delete them.
Me: Why do you keep testing me?
I delete that too.
My fingers hover over the screen for a long time before I finally lock it and set it face down. I’m not going to text her. I’m not going to jerk off again thinking about her. And I’m not going to let her destroy me.
But when I walk to the bedroom, every fiber of my body is still aching for her. And I know… I know it’s only getting worse.