Chapter 16
Coffee, Rohit mused the following Monday, had nothing on Cynthia Kumar.
They were spending the day in the smaller and less cushy Conference Room A of the Desmond Business Center, and the way she moved around the room—confident, assertive, and graceful—was more powerful than any caffeine rush Rohit had ever experienced.
Even with their new, unspoken truce, this woman tortured him.
Every time she reached past him for a pen or sidled next to him to slide another chair around the medium-sized oval table, she infiltrated his senses, and he finally had a name for it: sandalwood.
He hadn’t been able to resist basking in it, his nose tucked against the back of her naked shoulder that first night he’d met her, nor could he deny that he had welcomed the lingering scent after she’d spent his birthday with him.
She’d made his night— his whole fucking year —showing up at his apartment on his loneliest day. All because she’d brought him cupcakes.
And stayed.
With the utmost discipline, Rohit forced himself not to react as she brushed past him again to survey the room that would host a series of staff focus groups that day, but with her back safely turned, he gave in: Rohit breathed deep.
“Something’s not right…” Cynthia said, turning to face him.
Rohit cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”
She leaned over the small side table beside the oval conference table to adjust the angle of the water pitcher just so. She frowned and edged the stack of paper cups a little closer. Bit her lip, moved it away again.
Her fidgeting inspired the gentlest tug just shy of the center of his rib cage and he tucked his hands in his pockets before he did something moronic, like reaching out to give her hand a reassuring squeeze. “It looks great,” he said.
Cynthia’s hands froze in midair, and she straightened with a self-conscious smile. “I know, I…Oh! I almost forgot.”
In another act of supreme self-control, Rohit averted his eyes as Cynthia bent at the waist to open the cabinet door below the table. It took a heroic effort on his part considering she was wearing a black pencil skirt today.
When she reemerged, two boxes of Timbits were in her hands.
“Where did those come from?” Rohit asked.
Cynthia popped the top open and placed the donut holes next to the water pitcher. “I stowed them here this morning. Can’t be too careful around Klepto Keer.”
“Klepto…” Rohit grinned. “You call our head of finance ‘Klepto Keer’?”
She notched her chin upward even as a faint blush crept onto her cheeks, and Rohit’s heartstrings pulled tight again. “Well, yeah. Because…”
“He’s always stealing donuts,” Rohit finished with a chuckle. “Clever. Any other hilarious pet names I should know about?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call them pet names, but…” The corners of Cynthia’s mouth quirked upward playfully—adorably—as she counted off her fingers with mock seriousness. “Klepto Keer, Leering Larry, Sleepy Simon, Moaning Martin…”
“ Moaning Martin?”
“Get your mind out of the gutter.” Cynthia swatted his arm. “The guy always makes the most dramatic moans whenever he stands up after sitting for too long. Or when he bends over to pick something up.”
Rohit stared at the spot on his suit sleeve where Cynthia had touched him, wondering how much longer he could survive if such an innocent, barely-there gesture could set off this kind of battering in his chest. It was a concerning affliction, one that had zero sympathy for the males in the Patel family tree who were prone to being born with narrow arteries.
He was screwed. Whenever any part of her came into contact with him—whether it was a gentle nudge because he was in her way or a friendly bump of her shoulder against his when he made her laugh—Rohit fell victim to the same series of events: his breath stuttered, a rush of hot pleasure scaled down his spine, and his narrow arteries strained to keep up with his heart’s newfound momentum.
When she’d asked him what he wanted at the Pipe and Straw, he’d laughed bitterly. But now every sandalwood-clouded sense gravitated toward one very obvious answer with alarming certainty.
Her. He wanted her . Since the moment he’d met her.
This woman, Rohit realized as the collar of his dress shirt pressed uncomfortably against his heated neck, was a health risk.
“What about Olufo?” he remembered to croak after a long pause.
Luckily, Cynthia didn’t seem to notice. She’d moved to the conference table and was straightening its chairs. “Nothing,” she said, sounding distracted. “I like him.”
The door to the conference room opened and Beata, the third-party consultant they’d hired to conduct the staff engagement survey a few weeks ago, ambled inside.
After receiving the results of the survey, where the words poor work-life balance and top-heavy had popped up more than once, both Cynthia and Rohit had agreed that the next step of their plan—voluntary focus groups to discuss the survey’s findings—would require a trained professional to guide the conversation.
Beata’s eyes zeroed in on the conference table and she squinted thoughtfully. “I wonder if, for this meeting, we should move the table—”
“To the edge of the room?” Cynthia finished. “I agree completely.”
“Good. Because I think rows would be more…” Beata’s hands fluttered.
“Conducive.” Cynthia nodded again.
Rohit watched as the two began dragging the chairs away from the table. “Uh…”
“Jump in anytime, Rohit,” Cynthia said as she began arranging the chairs in neat rows facing the front of the room.
“It’s too bad we can’t place them in a circle…” Beata mused, tapping her long red fingernails against the now-empty conference table.
Cynthia didn’t pause in her task. “I know, the thought crossed my mind, too. But there won’t be enough room, especially since we aren’t entirely sure—”
“How many people will show up?” Beata nodded. “Good point.”
Rohit felt dizzy. “Okay, what are you two doing?”
Cynthia continued arranging the chairs as she answered, her voice slightly out of breath. “If one of the main concerns from the survey is that people don’t feel they have a seat at the table, then we probably shouldn’t hold this focus group around a table that doesn’t have enough chairs.”
“But there are more chairs in the room,” Rohit pointed out. “We have enough seats for everyone.”
Beata patted Rohit’s shoulder. “Try to keep up, dear.”
It was almost the exact same phrase Cynthia had thrown at him a few weeks ago, and from across the room, Cynthia’s laughter momentarily distracted Rohit.
Her sandalwood perfume might stun him senseless, but her laughter was a much greater problem.
Her joy was addictive, could drive a man to do unspeakable, criminal things.
And when Cynthia’s intelligent amber eyes met his, the corners tilted up in mirth, Rohit was happily defenseless against the fresh dose of dopamine shooting through him.
“Rohit, the table?” Cynthia said, hovering nearby with a chair cradled in her arms.
Rohit jerked to attention and grabbed the edges of the table to pull it back against the far wall so Cynthia could continue building rows for the staff of Kumar Construction.
It wasn’t an impressive feat by any means—especially since the table was on wheels—but at least it was a contribution to the efforts of two capable, whip-smart women whose telepathic conversation did not need Rohit’s input.
Still, Rohit hurried to help Cynthia finish as the first group of employees trickled in.
They smiled at Rohit and eyed Cynthia warily before quietly taking their seats.
It wasn’t long before the trickle turned into a steady flow, and soon almost every chair was filled with members of the junior and administrative staff from Kumar Construction’s corporate office.
When Cynthia’s assistant, Jilly, and Gaia, the afternoon receptionist, walked in, Rohit hurried toward the door. “I’ll grab more chairs,” he said.
Beata stepped to the front of the room with a warm smile. “Thank you, everyone, for coming. It takes a lot of courage to partake in something like this, and I think the number of staff in attendance shows just how important this meeting is today.”
As Beata began introducing herself, Rohit felt a gentle tug at his elbow and his heart thudded as a fresh wave of sandalwood assaulted him all over again.
“C’mon,” Cynthia whispered, pulling him toward the door.
When they were outside the room, she removed her hand from the crook of Rohit’s elbow, leaving him strangely bereft. “I saw the way people looked at me when they walked in,” she explained. “If we’re present, people might be scared to speak up.”
Rohit’s eyebrows shot up. “Good thinking.”
With a short laugh, Cynthia led the way into the elevator. “I may not be able to read people like you do,” she said, “but I can pick up on a few things at least.”
It wasn’t quite a compliment, but Rohit’s insides warmed anyway. “I’m kind of blown away by how many people showed up,” he commented. “There weren’t that many dissenters in the survey results—maybe people were holding back.”
“Looks like Melanie Burgos wasn’t exaggerating after all.”
Rohit turned to face Cynthia, but her gaze was trained on the numbers above the elevator door as they descended to the lobby. “What’s up with the two of you, anyway?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
Rohit thought back to the afternoon Melanie had cornered him and Cynthia outside.
The reporter had put him on the defensive, too, but the tension between her and Cynthia had crackled with something more complicated than a surprise confrontation.
“There was this animosity between you and Melanie or something.”
“You felt that?” When Rohit nodded, Cynthia sighed and folded her arms across her chest. “We’ve known each other for a long time, and we’ve always rubbed each other the wrong way.”
“Were you two ever close?”