2. Talia
Talia
“We’ve met,” I say, and the room goes quiet enough for me to hear the soft shift of Declan Ward’s breath.
For a moment, no one moves. Not Graham Cross at the head of the table.
Not Marcus Vale, who has gone very still in a way that tells me he misses almost nothing.
Not Adrian Hale, whose polite expression has sharpened into something quieter and more assessing.
Even Rebecca turns her head slightly toward me, and I can feel the question forming in the room before anyone is foolish enough to ask it.
How well? I don’t answer that. I have survived too many rooms full of powerful people by learning exactly which truths belong on the table and which ones stay locked behind my teeth.
Not enough to undo the fact that my pulse reacted before my brain could stop it, which is irritating on a level I refuse to examine while standing in a boardroom wearing four-inch heels and a professional expression I spent seven years perfecting. Not that I’m counting.
Declan recovers quickly. Men like him make entire careers out of recovering before anyone can prove they were shaken. His mouth curves into something that almost becomes a smile, except it doesn’t quite reach the place smiles used to reach with him.
“Small world,” he says.
I give him the kind of look I usually reserve for consultants who call a bad assumption a bold projection. “Not that small.”
Something flickers in his eyes.
Let him wonder what I mean. Let him sit with the fact that I am not the woman who slipped out of a hotel room before sunrise with my shoes in one hand and a thousand unanswered questions in her head, telling herself she was doing something necessary instead of something brave.
Rebecca clears her throat lightly, the sound soft but efficient. “Then we can save the awkward networking portion of the meeting.”
I look away from Declan first, because someone has to be sensible, and apparently, the job has fallen to me.
“Please,” I say, taking the empty seat two chairs down from him instead of the one Rebecca originally indicated. “I reviewed the integration model on the way over. There are three risk assumptions I’d like to revisit before anyone agrees to the proposed timeline.”
Across from me, Marcus's attention sharpens, and beside him, Declan leans back in his chair with infuriating ease. I don't look at him. That decision feels less like professionalism and more like self-preservation, which is irritating enough all by itself.
That’s a rule I create immediately and without debate.
I will not look at Declan Ward unless business requires it.
I will not react to his voice, his laugh, his stupidly expensive suit, or the way he still manages to make every room feel like it’s only waiting for him to decide where the energy goes next.
And I definitely will not remember the way his hand once slid along my waist as if he had all the time in the world.
Absolutely not.
“Which assumptions?” Marcus asks.
Thank God for practical men.
I open my folder and slide a printed summary toward the center of the table. “Vendor transition, data migration timing, and the Foundation allocation.”
Graham's expression changes at the last point, and that small shift tells me everything I need to know. That matters to him. More importantly, it's something I can work with.
“The Foundation allocation is nonnegotiable,” he says.
“I didn’t say it should be reduced.”
His gaze holds mine for a beat, and I appreciate the fact that he doesn’t posture. Graham Cross has the look of a man accustomed to getting what he wants, but not the kind who needs to bark to prove it. That matters. I’ve sat across from too many executives who confuse volume with authority.
“What are you suggesting?” he asks.
“That if Ashcroft’s compliance structure stays intact during the first phase, the funds earmarked for child development programming could be delayed by six to nine months.
” I tap the page once. “No one is talking about it because everyone is focused on acquisition optics and revenue lift. But if the public announcement includes Foundation expansion, and then that expansion stalls, Crossridge takes the reputational hit even if Ashcroft caused the delay.”
Adrian's brows lift slightly, and Marcus reaches for the document immediately. Declan says nothing, which should make concentrating easier.
It doesn't.
His silence still has shape. I hate that I know that, that I recognize the difference between his public ease and the quieter attention underneath it. Seven years should have made him blurrier, less specific.
Instead, every time I don't look at him, I know exactly where he is. My traitorous body notices. My equally traitorous memory fills in everything else, and apparently, the rest of me has decided not to be helpful either.
Rebecca reviews the summary with a small frown. “We flagged compliance timing, but not in relation to the Foundation announcement.”
“That’s why you brought me in.”
The room shifts. Not dramatically, and not enough to satisfy anyone who enjoys watching people squirm. But enough that the men across from me understand I have not come here to decorate the meeting or soften a difficult conversation.
That’s what I want. I’ve spent too many years becoming the kind of woman no one can dismiss in a room like this. I didn’t do it so Declan Ward could walk back in and make me forget how to breathe because he said my name.
“Ms. Wynn is right,” Marcus says finally.
Declan’s mouth twitches. “Careful,” he says. “That sounded painful.”
Marcus doesn’t glance at him. “Accuracy often is.”
A laugh moves quietly around the table, and for one dangerous second, the room loosens around Declan again.
I remember that too. How quickly he could turn pressure into warmth, tension into humor, and strangers into allies. That was the problem with Declan Ward. He didn’t force his way into rooms. Rooms made space for him and thanked him afterward.
And I was once young enough, tired enough, lonely enough, and reckless enough to mistake that warmth for something meant to last.
I turn a page in my folder. “Then let’s discuss how to fix it.”
The next hour becomes blessedly practical.
Numbers. Risk matrices. Allocation schedules.
Implementation windows. I answer questions, challenge assumptions, and ignore Declan with the kind of discipline that should qualify as a professional achievement.
He makes it difficult, though not by flirting.
That would almost be easier. Instead, Declan does something far more dangerous. He listens. Really listens.
He asks sharp questions without trying to prove he is the smartest person in the room.
He catches the weak points before others notice them and offers alternatives that make sense.
He’s still impertinent, still too charming by half, but beneath the charm is a mind that moves fast and sees angles other people miss.
I hate that I still like that about him.
More than that, I hate that I apparently never stopped.
No. That isn't true. I didn’t forget. I buried it under rent payments, daycare invoices, client deadlines, bedtime routines, and the small, relentless logistics of building a life around a child who deserves stability more than he deserves a fairy tale.
Flynn. His name pulls me back to what matters. Not Declan's voice. Not the memory of a hotel balcony. Not the inconvenient fact that my body apparently remembers the exact shape of a mistake I can’t afford to repeat.
Flynn.
My son is home with Mrs. Smith from the apartment next door, probably arguing that pajamas are unnecessary because pilots don’t wear pajamas, which is both untrue and very difficult to debate with a six-year-old who believes confidence is the same thing as evidence.
I glance at the time on my tablet. Forty minutes until I need to leave.
Rebecca notices. “Do you have a hard stop?”
“Yes,” I say.
Declan looks at me then, and I feel it before I see it. This is ridiculous.
“I have another commitment,” I add, because I don’t owe this room an explanation.
His eyes narrow slightly, not with suspicion exactly, but curiosity. The kind that used to come before a question I didn’t want to answer and a smile that made me want to answer it anyway.
I gather my papers before he can decide whether to speak.
Graham stands. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning.”
“That works,” Rebecca says.
Declan rises with the rest of them, and the movement draws my attention despite every sensible instruction I’ve given myself.
He’s still too easy in his body. Still too comfortable in expensive fabric and difficult rooms. Still the kind of man who looks like he’s already halfway to his next destination before anyone else has found the door.
But when our eyes meet, he isn’t moving, and neither am I.
For a fraction of a second, the boardroom disappears, and I am back in another city, another room, another version of myself. His hand is braced beside my head. His mouth is close to mine. He is laughing softly against my skin, saying my name like he means to remember it.
“Ms. Wynn,” he says.
I look at him because business allows it. “Yes?”
His expression is easy enough to fool the room but not nearly easy enough to fool me. “It was good to see you.”
That is such an absurdly inadequate sentence that I almost laugh. Instead, I give him the polite smile I use when men underestimate me in public, and I’m deciding whether it’s worth correcting them.
“Was it?”
Something bright and startled crosses his face before he smooths it away. I recognize it too quickly, too warmly, and I hate myself for it. I close my folder.
“I’ll see everyone tomorrow.” Then I leave before my body can betray me further.