Henry

HENRY

When Paige Monroe steps into my office, I catch a glimpse of her before I bend down to sign the last page of a contract I should have reviewed yesterday.

She's just as beautiful as she was four years ago, but now, she's a stunning, confident woman—who's scowling at me.

We stare at each other for a few heartbeats. I haven't seen her since that night—the one I replay at the most inopportune moments. The one that haunts me when I'm frustrated and take myself in hand, the one that knots my guts with guilt every time I go to her father's house and pretend it never happened, the one that I want to do over again and not be such a prick this time.

Fuck, I've thought about her a lot. Nearly every day since she left for college and didn't come back. Or at least, not when I would see her. Maybe, I'd learned to be precise about when I visited the house to curb temptation.

Because I was tempted to stay after what happened, to spend the entire night with her and see her off to college in the morning, to hold onto her after Patrick returned and to stake my claim on her. To visit her on the weekends and integrate myself into her life for as long as she would have me. But the moment I remembered I couldn't have any of it, I closed myself off. I turned into the asshole that I promised my mother I would never be.

It was a daydream concocted from attraction and that rare connection I felt with Paige that night.

I don't sleep with a woman unless I feel it. And as wrong as it was, that undeniable draw is what tipped me over the edge.

My only hope was that the night we shared hadn't messed up her life, and it doesn't seem to have. Not with her marks, her internships and portfolio, her references. They all reflect the hard work she put in to earn this job.

My standing up startles her, and she blinks her gaze away from mine. It's obvious that her father didn't warn her who she'd be working for. Will it change her mind about the job? "Miss Monroe, please have a seat."

I gesture to one of the two seats before my wide desk, their dark red seats are reflecting on her cheeks, making her look flush. I round my desk to the small bar on the far side of the room to grab us both a glass of water, giving us a moment for the shock to wear off.

Shamelessly, I examine her while I pop a few ice cubes into the intricate cut glasses. Everything about her seems more polished and in charge. Competent. Capable. My biggest turn-on, seeing it in a woman. More often than not, those women were my age or older.

What else had happened to Paige and forced her to change so drastically? College didn't do it on its own.

When I hand her the water, I lean against the back of my desk and watch her pretty mouth fit around the side of the glass, her throat moves when she swallows, and I clear my throat.

"Your transcripts are impressive. Your coursework focused on marketing and project management during your degree. Both of your internships gave you a lot of freedom to plan and implement various smaller projects. The references from your former bosses say that you are well-rounded, a quick learner and whip-smart. You think on your toes and listen to your peers. You give credit when it's due and aren't afraid to claim it if it's yours."

I shift, sliding my left hand into a pocket. She follows the movement, taking a deep breath. Does she feel how tuned into each other we are? How does that thread still draw tight between us?

Perhaps I'm the one in trouble here.

"Your portfolio shows that you are persuasive and creative. You know how to appeal to niche markets, especially those targeting consumers under thirty." I sip from my own glass of water, certainly in trouble. My tongue wants to betray me and spill more compliments—ones that aren't work-appropriate.

Paige mimics the motion as if to keep herself from speaking, and she crosses her legs, showing off their length and muscle in the tapered pantsuit she's wearing. Finally, she blinks up at me briefly as if to ask, and …?

"Those will all be incredibly helpful on our new venture. We need someone who can bring in new ideas, who knows how trends evolve and what will stick when others fall into fads, who can lead a team, delegate and keep every piece of a project in motion and to standard. Do you think you're a good fit?"

She bristles, her shoulders pulling back, both feet planted on the floor as she pins me in place with her vibrant blue eyes. "I thought I already had the job."

"You do. I'm just giving you the out if you want it." I will not force her to stay here, work under me, if she isn't comfortable with it.

It's like someone grabs the tension between us and twists it in their fist.

"What makes you think I don't want it?" Her jaw clenches, but she refuses to look away first. Good. She's not afraid of me. Angry with me, perhaps. Old feelings that popped up the moment we were in the same room again.

I understood them too well. It's the same thing that keeps drawing my gaze back to her mouth. "The look on your face when you saw me."

"You don't know what the look on my face means, Mr. Walker."

"."

The dark flash through her features tells me she's thinking about the last time she called me that. If she hadn't been before.

I replay the way she told me she wanted me, how she gave her consent, how she was okay. I'm not the first older man to be seduced by that kind of logic in the moment. Especially with her across my lap, my hands on her hips, her mouth dangling like a lure above mine.

It makes the elephant in the room harder to ignore as I snap out of the memory. My hand squeezes into a fist in my pocket.

"Let me show you to your office then." I pluck the glass out of her hand and set it aside with my own. Holding my hand out to her, I know she doesn't need the assistance, but I can't seem to help myself.

That seems to be the ongoing trend with her because when she takes it, an undeniable spark drives through me.

This is not good.