Page 34 of Their Arrangement
Sharper.
It smelled like expensive leather and richer blood.
Not office air. Not city air. This was something else.
I stepped out, the files for Loyal clutched tight in my arms, and instantly felt out of place. Not just unwanted. Invasive. Like a paper cut in the middle of a diamond showroom.
My shoes clicked against the polished floor with a hollow, insecure rhythm. The right heel had started peeling at the edge—only noticeable if you looked close, but I felt it with every step.
The women on this floor didn’t walk. They glided. Their heels made confident, rhythmic taps. Mine sounded apologetic.
I passed reception. The secretary didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. She already knew I didn’t belong. I turned the corner. And there he was.
Wolfe.
He stood at the head of a sleek glass table in the alcove near the mezzanine. His posture relaxed but commanding. Effortless. Like the whole floor tilted toward him.
He was surrounded by three women.
All of them beautiful in the way legacy money makes women look. Sculpted hair. Glossed lips. Fitted dresses in tones too pale to get dirty.
They laughed softly. Flirted without trying. One of them reached out and touched his sleeve. Another leaned in, brushing his forearm with perfectly manicured nails.
He didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch. Just smiled. That almost-smile. The one that never touched his eyes. It was the most I’d seen him emote all week.
Something twisted inside my chest. I should’ve looked away. Should’ve kept walking. But I didn’t.
I watched. Watched the way his jaw flexed when he tilted his head to listen. Watched the way the dark fabric of his shirt stretched just slightly over his biceps when he crossed his arms.
God, those hands.
Thick fingers. Veined. Strong.
I remembered the brush of one against my back in the hallway. Just one accidental pass. And I hadn’t stopped thinking about it since. My stomach fluttered. Heat bloomed low and unwelcome between my thighs. I hated myself for it.
I shifted the files in my arms, just to give myself something to do—something that wasn’t staring.
And then?—
Wolfe looked up.
Directly at me.
Dead on.
Like he’d known I was there the whole time. The laughter around him softened. Muted.
One of the women turned, tracking his gaze. Her smile faltered when she saw me. Their eyes landed on me like I was gum stuck to the marble.
Wolfe didn’t smirk.
Didn’t soften.
He just stared.
Once. Slowly.
And then his gaze dropped. Down my body. Not fast. Not like it surprised him. Like it was deliberate. A statement.
