Page 43 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

“The director for mPOWER came to a job and internship fair hosted by the Future Women Business Leaders club. Forsome reason, no one stopped by her table. I guess the idea of volunteering downtown wasn’t as attractive as interning at Bank of America or something.”

Storm nods, looking at me with such intensity that I have to avert my gaze.

“We got to talking and I learned about what mPOWER does—helping minority women launch businesses—and I knew I had to help. I had a speed meeting scheduled with JPMorgan Chase, but I cancelled it and started at mPOWER the next day.”

“Wow,” Storm says, “So you just knew, huh?”

I grin.

“Yeah. I mean, DeAndria is a great boss. Pushy sometimes, but she’s great. But the best part is all the women I work with. It’s like I get to see them grow their babies and give birth to a miracle. Many of these women wouldn’t have achieved their goals without the support mPOWER provides. I’m just so glad to be part of their story.”

The hum of the elevator fills the space between us, an ambient noise that only amplifies the charge in the air.

“You love it, don’t you,” Storm says, his voice just a hair over the electrical buzz.

“Working at mPOWER?” I ask. He shakes his head.

“No. Working with your clients.”

My chest warms, and he’s absolutely right. I love working with people like Dani and Shakira or Mari, because when one of us wins, we all win.

“So how does a Harvard MBA fit into all of this?” Storm asks, and the question kills the lift I get talking about my work.

“Um,” I say, thinking through responses. I’m sure working for a non-profit like mPOWER would be fulfilling, but doing so won’t get me to the goal.

And the goal is everything.

I bring my hands up near my chest, and I catch myself shaking my fingers out and clenching them into fists.

“You do that often,” he says, his voice cutting through the quiet.

I glance at him, confused. “Do what?”

“That.” He nods toward my hands. “You flick your hands when you’re uncomfortable.”

The observation hits me harder than it should. I straighten my shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of his attention.

“You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not,” he says softly. “You’re a fascinating person to observe.”

I realize how close we are when his arm brushes against me.

“I notice things about you, Shae. Like how you tilt your head when you’re trying to decide if someone’s worth your time or how you click your pen three times before you raise your hand in class.”

My pulse stutters.

“Wow, stal-ker,” I say, trying to inject some humor into the situation.

Storm shrugs. “Eh, not really. You’re just easy to read,” he says, leaning just a fraction closer, his green eyes sharp and unyielding. “Or maybe I just see things most people don’t.”

I don’t know whether it’s his words or his proximity that’s making it hard to breathe. “You don’t see me, Storm. Not really.”

He smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “I see more than you want me to.”

I hate how my body reacts to his words, how my pulse thunders in my ears, and my skin feels too tight. I refuse to let him see how deeply his presence unnerves me, so I bite my lower lip while I assess him.

“What about you?” I ask, my voice sharper than intended. “What do people see when they look at you?”

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