Page 14 of Pietro
She's too good at this. Too comfortable in my world. It should worry me more than it does.
Liam leaves, and the office settles back into its rhythm. The soft click of her keyboard, the whisper of papers, the distant wail of a Chicago siren thirty-five floors below. I catch myself watching her again. The way afternoon light plays across her cheekbones, the elegant line of her throat when she tilts her head.
"You need to learn the shipping codes."
She looks up, surprised.
"The real ones," I clarify.
I'm on my feet, moving around my desk before I decide to. I stop beside her chair. She watches me approach, her spine straightening, but she doesn't move away.
"Here." I lean over her shoulder, pointing at her screen. Her scent ambushes me. It's not perfume. It's just... her. Clean, like fresh laundry and something floral that has no business being in this office full of gunpowder and secrets. It crowds out the air.
"When we mark something as 'fragile,' it means law enforcement is watching that port."
"'Temperature controlled' means the shipment contains..." she pauses, working it out. "Items that need to avoid inspection?"
"You're quick."
"'Express delivery'?" Her voice has gone husky.
"Payment required before release." My own voice drops lower. "Usually means someone owes us."
She nods, turning back to the screen, but I catch the way her breathing has changed. Shallower. Faster.
I should move away. Return to the safe distance of my desk. Instead, my hand brushes hers as I reach for the file.
She flinches. A sharp, violent recoil, pulling her hand to her chest like I've just held a flame to her skin. Her mask is back in place, but I saw it.
Fear.
"I should go." She's on her feet, gathering her things with practiced efficiency. "It's late."
It's barely five-thirty, but I don't point that out.
"I'll drive you."
She freezes, purse halfway to her shoulder. "That's not necessary."
"Wasn't a question."
Her chin lifts. She wants to argue. I can see it in the way her jaw tightens, the way her fingers grip her purse strap. But she just nods.
The elevator ride is silent. She stands in the far corner, a soldier at attention, maintaining maximum distance in the confined space. But I can still smell her, feel the ghost of her skin against mine.
My Maserati waits in the underground garage, engine already running. Liam's work. I open the passenger door for her, and she hesitates before sliding onto the cold leather.
"Lincoln Park." Her voice is tight, aimed at the passenger-side window.
I already know. Liam’s background check was thorough. He found nothing wrong about her. But I punch the address into the GPS, letting her keep the illusion of privacy.
The drive is ten minutes of silent warfare. The space is too small, filled with the scent of her shampoo and the sound of her quiet, controlled breathing. I want to tell her to relax. I want to tell her to get the fuck out of my car. I do neither.
"This is it," she says when I pull up to her building.
She reaches for the door handle, then pauses. "Thank you. For the ride."
"Nora."
