Page 106 of Kneel with the King
When I’m finished, Walter flips open his leather portfolio and launches right in. “Well, gentlemen, now that Fuse and King are one entity, I’d like to review the first joint pitch.”
“What pitch?” Asher asks.
Walter’s brow furrows. “The one Mr. King emailed me yesterday.”
Asher looks at me then, his face turning red with rage. I’d deliberately left him off the email, and with the way he’s looking at me like he might murder me, perhaps that wasn’t the brightest idea.
I start to answer, thinking of an excuse other than ‘I wanted to hurt you just as much as you hurt me,’ but Asher’s chair scrapes back sharply.
“Excuse me a moment.”
He’s already halfway to the door before anyone can respond.
I give Walter my most diplomatic smile. “One second.”
I follow Asher down the hallway, the sound of my shoes echoing off the marble. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t even look at me, just beelines for the metal door at the end that leads to the stairs, which leads to a rooftop terrace. I’d gotten my tour of the building earlier this morning, and my assistant had told me it was one of those “fresh air” spaces the execs use when they need to blow off steam.
Wonderful.
“Asher,” I call after him.
He ignores me and climbs the stairs, two at a time. Shoving the matching metal door open, we both step into the early March air. The blast of cold hits me in the face when I follow him out.
The door swings shut behind us with a sharp metallic click. I turn to go back in, but the handle won’t budge.
Of course.
“It’s locked,” I growl, turning to face him.
Asher’s chest rises and falls, nostrils flaring. “Security had the automatic lock installed last month after someone left it open in the rain. You need a key card to get back in.”
My eyes go wide. “By all means, be slower at producing said key card. I haven’t gotten mine yet.”
He chuckles, but it’s not kind. “You mean the one sitting on the table next to Walter?”
I take a step toward him, shoving my hands into my suit pockets against the biting wind. “Guess you’re stuck with me until someone realizes we’re missing.”
The wind cuts straight through the thin wool of my jacket, and I can see him shiver. The tip of his nose is already pink. I move closer, partly because I’m freezing, partly because I want to see how long he’ll hold his ground before giving in.
“Don’t,” he warns, but his teeth chatter halfway through the word.
“We’re on the seventy-second floor and it’s twenty-eight degrees out here, Harrison,” I say, voice low. “We’re either standing close or we’re both going to be miserable.”
He huffs, but when the next gust of wind hits, he gives in, letting me step in close until our shoulders touch, heat bleeding slowly between us through layers of fabric. His body is stiff at first, like he’s determined not to need the contact. But the longer we stand there, the more he leans in. From this close, I can smell his cologne under the cold air. Clean, sharp,familiar. It does things to me I wish it didn’t, especially after two weeks of silence.
His jaw is tight enough to crack, his gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder.
“I see you still enjoy screwing me over in public,” he mutters finally, voice cutting through the hiss of the wind.
“You mean the pitch email to Walter?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“Wasn’t playing,” I reply, teeth clicking.
He snorts. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”
I let the silence stretch a beat too long, mostly because he’s right. “Maybe I did,” I admit, my voice low enough to be almost lost in the wind.
