Chapter 5
“Okay,” I say, “where do we start?”
Sterling clears off the desk behind mine, which is being used as a tech graveyard. In one long sweep of his arm, he corrals everything into an empty box and sets it on the floor. It’s a smooth move. Powerful.
He could do that to my desk, easily. In a fit of passion, throwing everything to the floor, then grabbing me and …
I turn to hide the fierce blush that rushes to my cheeks.
Then he’s back, sitting right there, inches away from me, with his laptop and a terrifying stack of financial records. It makes a resounding thump as it’s set in front of me.
“I’ve already highlighted what I’m looking for on the first few pages. I need you to look through the rest and let me know if anything else jumps out at you.”
I open my mouth to follow up, but his attention is gone, all gates closed as he types.
Okay …
There’s no reason I should feel anxious right now—except, actually, there is because the man I’ve looked up to since I discovered his writing has just asked for my help, and I’m going to do it, even if it risks me losing what little I have here.
I look over my shoulder and catch him quickly turning away. “When do you need it done by?”
Sterling doesn’t take his eyes off his screen, his eyes narrowed and focused. “Monday.”
“That’s six days away.”
He hums an acknowledgment. I get nothing else.
So much for working together.
The highlights don’t reveal much—an account number that recurs every other page and some red marks beside any transfer over fifty thousand dollars. These records go back at least six months, and I’m going to have to sleep here if I want any chance of finishing it before next week.
“So …” I start, ignoring his silence. I might be a small-town girl, but I can be just as stubborn as he is. “What’s the story?”
His hand twitches. There’s a stack of blue Post-its sitting by a mug spilling over with hotel pens, and when he reaches for them, I wonder how we’re going to work together if he refuses to talk to me. Maybe we’ll work exclusively by note.
A small glimmer of hope appears when he cocks his head in my direction, lips parting and closing again. God, I never watch anyone this closely, but with Sterling, every detail is one more piece to a puzzle I’m desperate to solve.
My gut churns. The urge to fill the silence with words is almost indescribable; it itches under my skin, stretching and pulling at my patience as the seconds tick over.
Is it some sort of power play? Use me as an errand girl while he dangles the promise of a real story in front of me? How did he even know that’s what I wanted? Does he have lunch with Monica and laugh over how naive I am?
My stomach flips over.
Eventually, I accept my fate, slip my headphones on, and let Hayley Williams keep me company as I work.
* * *
I collect the keys to my new place that night and find a letter slipped under my door.
Welcome to the building, neighbor! I’m 704, down the hall. Shout if you need anything or if the music’s too loud. Text if I can’t hear you. Thanks, Lucky
There’s a badly scrawled phone number underneath. I can’t tell if it’s a scam, but I’d rather be safe than sorry, so I crumple the paper up and throw it in the trash.
* * *
Sterling isn’t making it easy to ignore him.
Anyone would think he’s a spy, not a journalist, tailored in all black, his collarbone exposed by the open collar of his shirt.
How am I meant to work like this? It’s completely distracting.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be in the office if you’re having trouble concentrating.”
I tear my eyes away from his throat to find him peering down at me. Huh?
“You’re staring.” His voice, deep and final, does not make room for a question.
I flush all the way to my toes.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. Details are his job. Still, I can’t help the zip of a thrill that runs down my spine.
“I skipped breakfast,” I lie.
As Sterling checks his phone, a crease forms between his brows. I’ve spent a lot of time staring at him, trying to work out what that crease means and how I can make it go away.
“Bad news?” I can’t help but ask.
His eyes flick up to mine. They’re so, so blue. Fall skies, clear and cool. My favorite.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” Not your business, he means.
Right. We’re not friends. Sterling doesn’t have work friends.
In college, I dreamed of working here, near—and hopefully with—the famed Sterling Ross, cutting through the PR schemes that covered the asses of the rich and powerful, exposing the underhanded motives they used to stretch the class divide even further.
Now I’m questioning why I ever wanted to be near the man.
This is why you should never meet your heroes.
* * *
My neck gave up an hour ago and is now protesting loudly. I push my laptop away, rolling the aching muscles but it doesn’t help.
Everyone else left hours ago, leaving only Sterling and me. It’s quiet enough that I can count his even breaths. I’d almost think he was asleep.
I glance over and find him watching me.
He keeps doing that.
He reaches over to replenish his stack of papers, and my gaze snags on his hands—strong, with long fingers and no freckles. A clean canvas, highlighting the rippling of veins under his skin. I want them on me.
His sleeves are rolled up, and I stare at the now-bare skin of his forearms. There’s a fine layer of dark hair there.
My pulse spikes. I bet his calves look the same.
Mature. Rugged. This newfound fact coalesces into my image of him, morphing it into something gruffer to match the deep furrow of his brow and rough growl of his voice.
It’s dangerously sexy territory, not that I’ve ever needed an excuse to think he was sexy before.
A sneeze tickles my nose, and I rush to cut it off, but a soft, muffled snort escapes me. “Excuse me,” I say when I’m sure there won’t be another.
Sterling reaches across his desk, pulling a Kleenex from the box and thrusting it toward me, but that’s not what stops my breath. Poking out above the cuff of his shirt is a black four-leaf clover.
“Oh, I didn’t know you had a tattoo.”
Immediately, I know it’s the wrong thing to say.
Sterling stills, drops the tissue on my desk, and rolls down his sleeves. “I don’t let most people see it.”
Disappointment flashes cold against my skin. I guess I’m most people.
It’s late. The sun went down hours ago, and I can’t remember if I ate lunch.
My stomach grumbles, and my back is screaming, but there’s at least a hundred pages to still get through.
If I knew what I was really looking for, I could work faster.
Any detail at all would help, but Sterling’s been nothing but vague.
Does he think I’m going to steal the story from under his nose?
This is ridiculous.
Is this really what he wanted me for? To sit pretty and shut up?
Once again, I’ve let his reputation intimidate me. If I can’t hold a conversation with a colleague, how can I expect to ever hold my own against Fortune 500 assholes?
I’m better than this.
* * *
Make Your Choice:
say something to him (go to 10)
let it go (go to 13)
go back (go to 3)