In the car back to the office, I read through emails on my phone. A new one is resting right at the top from Marlena Rykers. She’s forwarded a much longer email from Priority Media, adding only two lines of her own to the top.


    The pitch was sessful. The Priority Media build is ours!


    I grin at the two short lines, and before I think it through, I call Faye’s work phone.


    Faye


    Myputer dings with a notification. There’s an email from Terri, and there’s only one thing in the subject line. WE GOT THE PROJECT! KEEP IT UNDER WRAPS. SEE YOU MONDAY.


    My smile feels massive. We got it. Not my design, and I was ast-minute stand-in, but still. We got the project.


    As I’m reading her email, my phone starts to ring. It’s Henry. I answer it with a smile still etched on my face. “Hello, sir.”


    “I just heard the good news,” he says. “Well done, Miss Alvarez. The project was awarded Marchand & Rykers.”


    “The project was practically finished when I joined.”


    His voice darkens. “You were given one week to prepare, and then you performed. ept thepliment.”


    I feel flushed, both with joy at the project and his words. “Thanks for putting me on the assignment.”


    “It wasn’t a favor. I knew you were capable.” His words are kind, but there is something else hiding in his tone. It’s too sharp.


    “Did you justnd at JFK?”


    “Yes.”


    “How was Chicago?”


    The pause is infinitesimal, but it’s there. “Over with.”


    Ah. So he turned the development offer down, then.


    I shouldn’t push, but I think about what he told me the other day, about the weight that obviously rested on his shoulders. Not knowing everything wasn’t an excuse for not caring.


    “How did your friend take it?”Property ? of N?velDrama.Org.


    There’s another pause. “Not particrly well.”


    The silence between us stretches on. I know what I would say to a friend-easy. But not to my boss, who is sometimes so professional it borders on rude, and sometimes so familiar I think we’re friends.


    “You had to follow your intuition,” I finally say. “That’s all anyone can do. And for the record, I think the decision was sound.”


    He harrumphs, a masculine sound, low in his throat. It’s easy to imagine that his lips are right by my ear, the deep voice like coarse silk. “I’ll be at the office soon.”


    “All right.”


    And then he hangs up, and I slump back at my chair, ncing at the time. I’ll have to workte today as well, it seems. Only this time it’s by choice. I focus on expense reports. On the agenda for a meeting with the in-house architects next week. On Henry’s calendar. But when the elevator finally dings, and he walks down the corridor to me, my heart is a beating drum in my chest.


    To anyone else I’m sure he’d look his perfect self. Not a hair out of ce, his suit immacte even after the flight. Broad shoulders speak of strength-capable of carrying the world.


    But when his eyes meet mine, themunication is instantaneous between us. Something is wrong.


    “Sir?”


    He closes his eyes briefly and pinches the bridge of his nose. I know what’s going to happen. He’s going to tell me to leave, to enjoy my Friday night, and then he’s going to shut himself into his office like he so often does. Away from life, from food andughter and conversation. Does he have friends? If so, I haven’t seen any of them.


    He nods to his office door. “Join me.”


    “Sure.”


    I stand on shaky legs and follow him in. He goes straight to his bookcases, opens one of the smaller cabs and pulls out a bottle half-filled with amber-colored liquor.


    “The trip was that bad?”


    Henry looks over his shoulder at me. The crease on his brow looks etched into his skin. “You were right.”


    “I was?”


    “About the project. It was immoral.”


    I sink into one of the chairs around his conference table. I’ve never seen it full before-he mostly has one-on-one visitors. “I don’t remember expressing that strong of an opinion.”


    “Hmm,” he hums, “but you did. It was clear in your eyes when we spoke about it.”


    “You already knew it was.”


    Henry pours himself a knuckle’s worth of whiskey. I can’t quite ce the emotioning off him. “Do you want one too?”


    “I’m on the clock.”


    The nce he shoots me is disbelieving. “It’s a Friday evening. You should have gone home already.”


    I wet my lips. This is a side of him I’ve never seen. It’s slightly unhinged, the cracks in the armor hinting at depths of emotion and passion.


    “Maybe. But I had work to do.”


    “Hmm,” he says again, the sound low in his throat. I watch as he pours another ss of whiskey. “You’re one of the most efficient assistants I’ve had. Somehow I doubt that.”


    I lean back in the chair and watch as he casually, carefully, starts rolling up his sleeves. Inch by inch of tan, muscled forearm is revealed.


    I ignore the implication in his words, slightly embarrassed that he guessed I stayedte for him. “But efficiency isn’t good enough, if you keep firing them.”


    He looks at me, but says nothing, just puts the ss in front of me. There’s challenge in his eyes again. I meet them head-on as I take a sip. It burns, but I don’t let any of that show on my face. His eyes darken. Poker face, meet Henry Marchand.


    “You didn’t think I was a pink drink kind of girl, did you?”


    He leans against his desk, arms crossed over his chest. It’s impossible to forget his physique-he’s so much taller, bigger than I am. “I think you are, but you’re much toopetitive to admit it.”