Page 25 of Babies for the Big Shot
“Mr. Miles,” she replies evenly, though amusement flickers in her eyes as she acknowledges him.
“Enjoy your campaign review,” he says, injecting far too much implication into the wordreview. As he passes me, he claps a hand to my shoulder with calculated force. “Try not to burn the place down, Romeo.”
Then he’s gone, leaving silence in his wake.
We’re alone.
She approaches with the folder in her hands, fingers braced against its edges with quiet purpose. When she hands it tome, our fingertips brush. The contact is brief, barely more than static, but my chest tightens with instinctive urgency.
Inside the folder is the fall launch breakdown. A single misstep in this rollout will compromise Q3 projections, undermining every assurance I gave the board last month. They’re watching this campaign as a bellwether for long-term viability in an increasingly volatile market. Her work is precise, sound, and positioned with a clarity I have rarely seen at her level.
“You’re good at this,” I tell her.
She glances at me. “You wanted to review the launch budget.”
I nod once, opening the folder, deliberately focusing on the printed spreadsheets. I shouldn’t look at her. I know this. But my gaze shifts regardless, drawn to the exposed edge of her collarbone where her blouse has slipped half an inch lower than professional decorum recommends. My restraint falters. Fails.
She smells faintly of burnt coffee and whatever shampoo carries that clean, subtle scent that reminds me of unguarded early mornings and decisions made in darkness.
“You’re good at this,” I repeat, because it’s the only safe truth I can offer.
A short, awkward laugh escapes her. “Careful. I might start expecting compliments, sir.”
That word.Sir.Spoken without irony, devoid of flirtation, yet carrying an undercurrent I feel vibrate down to my bones.
My grip on the folder tightens. Neither of us moves. For a moment that is elongated beyond measure, we remain suspended in a silence filled with possibility and consequence. Her lips part slightly. Her posture shifts imperceptibly backwards, but not far enough to sever what has sparked between us.
I remain absolutely still. Because if I speak, if I shift toward her even a fraction, it will be done. There will be no returningto professionalism. No amount of discipline will salvage what follows.
Eventually, the moment recedes, though not entirely. We continue the meeting, my focus fractured, hers resolute. I force myself to remain contained, to behave as if I’m not standing on the edge of something that threatens to consume us both.
It’s late by the time we finish. The office lies in semi-darkness, shadows pooling against partitions, the quiet hum of the HVAC system amplifying the unnatural stillness. The absence of other voices makes the space feel closer, more intimate—dangerously so.
She closes her laptop with a soft, weary sigh. “I think that’s everything.”
I nod, the motion clipped. “You produced strong work.”
“Careful,” she says again, her voice gentler this time, devoid of the earlier levity. “That’s two compliments in one day. People might start thinking you like me.”
I don’t smile. I can’t. Because if I do, the words waiting just behind my teeth will emerge. Truths that cannot be spoken here, or anywhere, without destroying everything I have spent a lifetime building.
I remain silent instead, watching her gather her things with quiet efficiency, knowing that this isn’t over. That silence is the only refuge left to a man standing on the edge of something he can’t afford to want.
We leave the conference room together, falling into step without discussion, our strides aligning in silent accord as we move down the long corridor lined with offices and dormant workstations.
Neither of us speaks as we enter the lobby. The hush between us isn’t uncomfortable, but charged in a way that tightens something low in my chest. We continue walking until, almost in unison, we slow to a stop in front of the elevators.
She glances at me then, her expression composed but edged with something I cannot name. “Going down?” she asks, one brow arching with subtle amusement
I exhale, a short, humorless sound. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“Don’t sound too enthusiastic,” she murmurs, the corners of her lips twitching in faint mockery.
“It’s not…” I start, but the words falter. I drag a hand across my jaw. “It’s not about you.”
She tilts her head, eyes glinting with that quick intelligence I’ve come to expect from her. “I know. You’d probably prefer being trapped in here with an over-caffeinated intern and a stale tuna sandwich.”
“Actually, that has happened,” I mutter, the memory surfacing with reluctant clarity. “It was… worse than this.”
