Page 32 of Babies for the Big Shot
I cannot speak.
I watch her mouth move, shaping words I cannot absorb. She’s saying something about the Hamilton pitch deck, updated revenue projections from McKenna’s team, a clarification on the Q3 launch timeline. Each word is delivered with precision and composure, yet none of it registers.
Because all I can hear is the echo of her breathing when she kissed me. All I can feel is the memory of her mouth under mine, soft and desperate and demanding, tasting of coffee and challenge and surrender. All I can think about is how badly I wanted her then, and how impossibly more I want her now.
And then she speaks again, her voice dropping lower, her chin lifting in that small, stubborn tilt that I have come to recognize as her last line of defence.
“If this is too complicated,” she says quietly, her gaze meeting mine without flinching, “I can request a transfer. Or something.”
No.
The word tears through me with the force of a detonated charge.
I rise from my chair so abruptly the legs scrape across the polished floor, the sharp sound echoing in the silence between us. “No.”
She flinches at the tone, but barely. She holds her ground with that quiet, unyielding resolve I have come to expect from her, the same resolve that both infuriates and undoes me in equal measure.
I step around the desk, closing the distance between us with a deliberate precision I no longer bother to conceal. The pull between us is undeniable. It is magnetic, elemental, and I’m too exhausted to keep resisting what has already claimed me.
“Don’t,” I say, my voice low and rough with the effort it takes to remain controlled. “Don’t leave.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, her arms folding across her chest in a gesture I have learned means she is bracing for impact. “Nick?—”
“I don’t want you to go.”
The words land between us with a finality that silences everything else. For a moment, there is only the two of us in this office, stripped of titles, stripped of pretence, stripped of every defence I’ve spent my life cultivating.
She parts her lips as if to speak, but no sound emerges. Her gaze remains locked on mine, wide and unguarded, and I watch her draw a careful breath as though trying to steady herself against something too large to name. For the first time, I see it—the flicker of vulnerability that tells me I’m not alone in this. That whatever this is, it’s consuming her, too.
She takes a small step forward.
My hands twitch at my sides. Every instinct in me screams to reach for her. To touch her. To finish what began weeks ago in an elevator and hasn’t stopped tightening its hold since. I already know that if she comes any closer, if I allow myself even a single taste of what I am denying, I won’t stop.
But before either of us can move, the knock comes. Two sharp raps against the door.
It opens without waiting for permission.
“Nick? Do you have a minute?”
Tina from HR, with her unshakeable cheer and her infuriating efficiency, walks into the room holding a folder under one arm and a cup of yogurt in her other hand as if the world isn’t currently collapsing around her feet.
I step back so abruptly my body jolts with the violence of it, the loss of proximity almost painful.
Sara’s expression shutters instantly. I watch her rebuild her composure in real time, smoothing her blouse, clearing her throat, straightening her posture until nothing remains of the woman who stood before me a moment ago with parted lips and unguarded eyes.
“I’ll circle back once you’ve reviewed the deck,” she says, her voice clipped and professional.
I open my mouth to stop her. I should tell her to wait. To stay. To give me a moment to gather what remains of my sanity before she walks out that door and leaves me here with nothing but the echo of what almost was.
But I can’t speak past the panic clawing its way up my throat.
She leaves without looking back.
Tina smiles as if we’re about to discuss staff appreciation banners or interoffice birthday policies. “Sorry to barge in. I know you didn’t want meetings this afternoon, but this will only take a moment.”
I sit down heavily in my chair because standing is suddenly impossible. “What is it?”
She blinks at my tone, then seats herself across from me without invitation. “We’ve had a couple of anonymous complaints about employees adjusting the thermostat on the twenty-first floor. Facilities is installing a digital lock tomorrow,but since your office is up there, I wanted to give you a heads up.”
