Scoffing, Chelsea grabs a tissue and catches the trash when I drop it, swiveling in her chair to open the wicker basket behind the desk. As she’s turned, I snatch the cookie container, clutching it to my chest, and bolt.
Her shouts of irritation barely register as my feet sprint across the tiled floor, aching with each exuberant step. I reach Boyd’s office door before she reaches me and drag the handle down, pushing inside and slamming it shut, plastering my body against the wood and scrambling to lock it.
Chelsea’s fists beat against the door as I lean my back into it, panting, the lid of the container lopsided from being squished. I push on the opposite end, insecurity ebbing through me, and exhale as it pops out, correcting itself.
As my lungs decompress, I lift my chin and see Boyd sitting behind his desk for the first time ever. The image is so disgustingly erotic and powerful, him regarding me with a bland expression and a corded phone held to his ear, that my knees weaken and my core quakes.
My mouth parts on an explanation, but he holds his index finger up, and I clamp it shut. “If that’s the case, Antonio, I suggest figuring out whether you’ve got a fucking mole in your midst, because I damn well know you’re not suggesting a program I designed myself would be privy to a privacy breach. We’re a fucking cybersecurity firm, for God’s sake.”
Oh, my God. The grip I have on the cookies weakens at the deep, authoritative tone; paired with the navy suit vest he has on, the dress shirt with its sleeves rolled mid-forearm to reveal some of the tattoos inked into his skin, and I’m practically drooling. I can feel my pulse between my thighs, and I shift, pressing them together to try and relieve myself of the ache.
It doesn’t do any good; the pressure just heightens my arousal, and I think I might actually come just from standing here, watching this man.
The muscles in his forearms bulge against his skin as his fingers flex around the phone, nostrils flaring. “I’m not asking, and if I have to make my way down to your shithole casino just to figure out what the problem is myself, I can guarantee you won’t like the resolution. Get it the fuck together or I’m shutting you down.”
Yanking the phone from his ear, Boyd slams it down on the receiver, tugging at the knot in his tie. He stares out the large windows that overlook downtown for several beats—so long, I start to wonder if he’s forgotten my presence entirely.
Clearing my throat, I take a half step forward, using the cookies as a shield. As if he’s some kind of wild animal and I’m potential prey, walking right into a trap. “Boyd?”
He doesn’t turn, doesn’t even flinch. Just keeps staring, hand resting on his giant oak desk. The leather desk chair he’s sitting in hides half his body from me, but I can still see the broad slope of his shoulders and the weight he holds there.
It’s all in the posture—people who carry their stress in the rotator cuff muscles always sit too straight, holding their necks slightly forward. Boyd’s strains so far away from his body, it’s almost as if they’re two different entities traveling in separate directions.
“Fiona,” he says finally, turning so he’s situated properly behind his desk. “Did Chelsea not say I was in a meeting?”
“No, she did.” I walk over to the two gray suede armchairs angled across from him and stand between them.
“And you came in anyway?”
I swallow, my tongue swelling. “Well, I drove Mom here and didn’t want to take too long. Her garden brunches are only half an hour long.”
“Ah, yes. Don’t you usually join her for those?”
“Usually, but today I needed to do this.” Taking a deep breath, I pinch my eyes closed, drop the container on his desk, and shove the cookies in his direction.
He studies them for a few seconds, eyebrows furrowing. “You had to... bring me cookies?”
“Yep.” Relief washes over me at the deed being over, my nerves loosening with the removal of that obstacle. “They’re an apology, of sorts.”
“An apology.”
The way he says it, so unfeeling and monotone, makes me second-guess myself, and my face flushes, heat staining my cheeks as I drop my gaze to the black rug beneath my feet. “For this past weekend, at the gala. I wasn’t exactly myself, and I felt bad that you got the brunt of that experience. So, I wanted to apologize, because—”
He cuts me off before I can launch into a full ramble. “Right. That was a bit out of character for you, no? You’re usually so...”
“Responsible?” I offer.
“Light.”
What in the world does that mean?
I can feel him staring holes into my forehead, but I don’t dare look until I hear the lid of the container pop open. When I raise my eyes, he’s still watching me, holding a cookie in one hand. The missing cookie makes the remaining stash uneven; they’d been stacked in careful towers of four, and now one stack only has three. My eyes glue to the imperfection, my finger tapping out its natural rhythm before I even consciously have to.
Tap, tap, tap.
“Do you realize I’m allergic to chocolate?” he asks, turning the cookie in his hand.
My eyes almost bug out of my head. “Um, no... I wasn’t aware of that.”