Chapter 5
Logan
The office at the end of the fourth-floor corridor still smells like him.
It hits me every time I walk in. Subtle but there, buried under polished wood and leather and the faint trace of whatever cologne he used to wear. For a second, it pulls me back to a version of this place I never thought I would step into again. A version where I belonged here without question.
Kiera warned me about the desk, and I still wasn’t ready for it. It’s oak, and it’s the size of a small car, delivered the year I turned seventeen—when the plan was still college, then a graduate degree, then this room. Nobody has ever used it.
Now, I sit behind it.
Garth offered me his own office on the eighth. I said no. That’s the president’s chair, and I told him I wasn’t taking the chair, and I meant it. So I took the only room in this building I can occupy without agreeing to anything.
I told myself that was the reason. It held up for about a day and a half.
.
I exhale slowly, my fingers pressing against the edge of the desk as I look down at the open files spread in front of me. The numbers blur slightly before I force my focus back into place, pushing everything else aside because this is what I agreed to do. This is why I stayed longer than I intended.
At first, it was simple. Help him. Stabilize things. Leave.
Then I started looking deeper. That’s where the problem began. Kiera put it in my hands on the second morning. The two portfolio companies she mentioned, a set of advisory fees she’d questioned before but was told it was nothing—legacy arrangements.
She was right to question them. That’s the first thing I establish, and I make a point of telling her so.
The second thing takes longer.
Something is wrong. It didn’t take long to see it either.
Not with the kind of work I do. Not with the way the numbers start to shift the moment I stop taking them at face value.
Small inconsistencies at first, easy to overlook if you’re not paying attention.
Once I noticed them, I couldn’t unsee them.
Money is missing. Not a lot at once. Just enough. Careful. Calculated. Consistent. For years.
My fist curls as I scroll through the screen again, tracing the movement of funds through accounts that shouldn’t exist at this level.
Service entities billing advisory and monitoring fees into companies we own, invoiced at the portfolio level where nobody at the fund reconciles them, routed through shell pathways designed to disappear before they can be properly followed.
Whoever’s doing this knows exactly what they’re doing.
Which makes it worse.
Years. He’s been doing this for years.
I lean back, dragging a hand over my face as a dull ache builds behind my eyes. The kind that comes from staring too long, thinking too hard, chasing something that refuses to be caught.
“Who the hell are you?” I mutter.
No answer. Just silence and numbers that don’t make sense.
I push away from the desk, tension settling into my shoulders as I stand. I roll my neck before heading toward the small coffee station in the corner, needing a break before I start forcing connections that aren’t there yet.
The machine hums softly as I set it up, the familiar routine grounding me in a way I didn’t expect. And for a second, my mind finally shifts. Not to the company. Not to the missing money.
To her.
Kiera.
The thought of her comes easily now. Too easily.
I lean one hand against the counter, a quiet breath leaving me as I let it settle. Her face slides into place without effort. The green eyes. The way she looks at me, the way she reacts to me, the way she fits into my space like she’s always been there even though she hasn’t.
It’s been a week. A week of her. Of us together.
I huff out a breath, a faint smile pulling at my mouth before I can stop it. I don’t recognize myself in this. In the way I think about her without trying. The way I look for her without meaning to. The way everything feels a little sharper when she’s around.
It’s not supposed to be like this. I don’t do this. I don’t get attached.
And yet.
My chest goes tight, the realization hitting harder than I expect. Because this isn’t temporary anymore, not in the way I planned, not in the way I told myself it would be.
London is still there. Waiting.
My life is still there.
But the idea of leaving doesn’t sit right.
Interim. I’ve used that word about eleven times a day for two weeks—the chair, the room I’m sleeping in, the flight I haven’t booked. It’s been doing a lot of work. It’s starting to buckle.
“Damn it,” I mutter, straightening as the coffee finishes.
There’s someone in the corridor.
There’s been someone in the corridor all week.
That’s the other thing about this room—for years, it was the door nobody opened, and now there’s a man in it who wasn’t in the building a few weeks ago, with a name half this floor recognizes.
People find reasons to walk down here. They slow as they pass.
Twice, I’ve caught someone doubling back for a second look.
I could put a stop to it. Ten minutes and a word to the right manager, and it would be over by lunch.
I haven’t.
A knock sounds against the door before I can think any further. I don’t even need to look.
“Come in.”
The door opens. And there she is, hair pinned up off her neck and green eyes that come to mine with a softness that makes something in me stutter.
Fuck.
Kiera steps in, closing the door quietly behind her. Her gaze holds mine almost immediately, and everything else fades into the background. The tension from earlier replaced by something that settles low in my gut and doesn’t intend to leave.
“You’re still here,” she says, soft but unsurprised.
“Work,” I reply, lifting the coffee slightly.
She smiles faintly. “I figured.”
I watch her move closer, the way she carries herself more comfortably around me now. Less hesitant, more sure, and it does something to me I don’t want to examine too closely.
“Garth called me,” she says after a moment.
That gets my attention. “Oh?”
“He wants us to have dinner with him tonight.” Her hands clasp lightly in front of her. “As a family.”
I let out a breath. “That sounds like his idea of fixing things.”
“It is,” she admits. “And he asked me to make sure you come.”
A faint smirk pulls at my mouth. “He thinks you can convince me.”
Her lips curve. “Can’t I?”
I step closer. Close enough to see the shift in her expression. The way her breath changes. The way her body answers, even when she’s trying to stay composed.
“You already have, sweetheart,” I say quietly.
Her gaze softens. “Then come with me. When you’re done here.”
I nod once. “I will.”
That should be the end of it. It isn’t. Because neither of us moves.
The space between us is already gone, and I’m reaching for her before I think it through. My hand closes around her wrist, pulling her in.
Her breath catches before my other hand slides to her waist, grounding her against me in a way that feels natural now. I take her mouth. It’s not rushed. It’s not hesitant. It’s deliberate—like I’m choosing this moment instead of losing control of it.
That doesn’t last.
Not when she responds the way she does. Soft sounds against my mouth that go straight to my cock. Her hands moving up my neck and into my hair. It breaks whatever restraint I was holding onto.
The coffee is forgotten. Everything else is forgotten.
I lift her easily and set her back against the desk without breaking the kiss, the edge pressing into the backs of her thighs as she steadies herself against me. Her fingers tighten on my shirt as I deepen the kiss, my control slipping just enough to let something stronger take over.
“You keep showing up like this,” I murmur against her lips. “You expect me to behave?”
Her breath catches, her head tilting back as I trail my mouth along her jaw.
“I didn’t come here for this,” she whispers.
“No?” My hand tightens at her waist. “Could’ve fooled me, baby.”
A faint sound leaves her, something between protest and agreement, and it only pushes me further.
I stand there looking at her, laid out on my desk like a gift I don’t deserve.
I don’t give her time to think.
My hands slide up her thighs, pushing the fabric of her dress higher, bunching it at her waist. She’s wearing stockings. Black. Lace tops peeking out beneath the hem.
Fuck.
I make a sound in my throat, something between a growl and a mutter. My fingers hook into the waistband of her panties, and I drag them down her legs, slow enough to watch her face—the way her breath comes out uneven, the way her eyes go dark.
“Spread your legs.”
She does. Hesitant at first, then wider when I don’t move. I stand there looking at her, dress still on, pushed up to her waist, her breasts hidden beneath silk and buttons. I’ll fix that.
But first, I need to taste her.
I drop to my knees, ignoring the ache in my cock, the urgency pounding through me. This isn’t about fast. This is about making her forget where she is, who she is, everything except my mouth on her.
The first stroke is slow, deliberate, bottom to top, and she arches off the desk with a cry that echoes in the empty office. I grip her hips, holding her down, and do it again, circling her clit with the tip of my tongue before drawing it into my mouth.
“Oh God,” she breathes, her hands flying to my hair, gripping tight.
I don’t stop. I settle in, finding a rhythm that makes her moan, makes her thighs tense around my shoulders. She’s slick, ready, and I groan against her, the vibration making her jerk. I want to drown in this, in her, in the way she responds like her body was made for my hands, my mouth.
“Logan,” she whispers, and it’s ragged and goes through me like a shot of whiskey.
I pull back just enough to look at her—her face flushed, her lips parted, her eyes glazed. “You taste so fucking good.” Her hips buck against my mouth.
I go back to work with renewed hunger, adding two fingers, sliding them deep, curling to find the spot that makes her scream. She's loud, louder than she should be.
And that’s the moment I remember there are people on this floor.