Where you Belong

The first indication that my Monday had developed a personal grudge against me came at 5:47 in the morning, when I woke to the smell of something burning.

For several seconds, I remained perfectly still beneath my blankets, staring into the darkness of my bedroom while my sleep-deprived brain attempted to determine whether the situation required immediate evacuation. There was no smoke alarm shrieking above me, no frantic pounding from a concerned neighbor, and no orange glow flickering beneath the bedroom door. Those were all promising signs.

The smell, however, continued getting stronger.

I closed my eyes and briefly considered ignoring it. This was less a reasonable solution and more a desperate hope that whatever was burning might eventually realize I was unavailable and extinguish itself out of respect for my schedule.

It did not.

With a groan, I pushed back the blankets and climbed out of bed, immediately stepping on one of the heels I had kicked off beside the dresser the night before. The narrow spike pressed into the sensitive arch of my foot, sending a sharp burst of pain up my leg and forcing me to grab the edge of the bed before I fell.

“Excellent,” I muttered into the darkness. “We’re not even out of the bedroom yet.”

The hardwood floor was cold beneath my bare feet as I hurried down the hallway. Outside the windows, rain tapped steadily against the glass, driven sideways whenever the wind moved between the surrounding buildings. Seattle was still wrapped in the deep blue-gray darkness that came before dawn, and the city lights below shimmered across the wet pavement.

I followed the smell into the kitchen and found my toaster releasing a thin curl of smoke from one side.

There were no flames, sparks, or visible signs that my apartment was about to burn down. The appliance simply sat on the counter with the quiet confidence of something that knew it had ruined my breakfast and felt no remorse whatsoever.

I pulled the plug from the wall and stared down into the slots.

Two pieces of toast had been burned so thoroughly that they were no longer recognizable as food. They looked like samples of roofing material someone might bring into court during an insurance dispute.

The timer was set to three.

Apparently, three now meant cremation.

“Traitor.”

I checked the clock above the stove and felt my stomach drop.

5:51.

My alarm should have gone off twenty minutes earlier.

I hurried into the living room and found my phone charging beside the couch, partially hidden beneath the corner of a legal pad. The screen lit when I picked it up, revealing four missed alarms and several unanswered messages from the previous night.

At some point after midnight, I had fallen asleep on the couch while reviewing contracts. I vaguely remembered carrying myself to bed, but apparently I had abandoned my phone, forgotten to set a backup alarm, and used my watch to silence every attempt my phone made to save me from myself.

“Good to know unconscious Sara has excellent reflexes.”

I should already have been showered, dressed, and halfway through my first cup of coffee. Instead, I stood barefoot in my kitchen wearing an old college T-shirt, staring at burnt toast and calculating how quickly I could transform myself into a competent corporate attorney.

The answer, if everything went perfectly, was approximately thirty-five minutes.

Nothing had gone perfectly so far.

The meeting with Wood Enterprises was scheduled for nine o’clock, but I had planned to be at the office by seven thirty. I still needed to review the revised environmental provisions, confirm the municipal contract schedule, and make certain Daniel Mercer had not added another last-minute concession simply because the opposing company’s chief executive was wealthy enough to make senior partners forget they had spines.

Jaxon Wood had not attended the earlier negotiations personally, but his reputation had preceded him through every stage of the acquisition. According to Daniel, he was brilliant, demanding, and almost impossible to read. According to Mel, who had researched him more thoroughly than was professionally necessary, he was also unmarried, thirty-four, and “offensively attractive.”

I had refused to look at the photograph she tried to show me.

I did not care what he looked like. My job was to understand his company’s position, protect my client, and make sure the agreement closed without leaving Halston Avery responsible for decades of undisclosed environmental problems.

The fact that several women in the office had begun referring to the meeting as “the Jaxon Wood event” was embarrassing for everyone involved.

At 5:54, I abandoned the kitchen and moved through my morning routine with a level of speed that would have impressed anyone who had never watched me attempt to apply mascara while brushing my teeth.

The shower took less than five minutes. I burned the side of my neck with the curling iron, dropped my foundation sponge into the sink, and spent nearly a full minute searching for a cream silk blouse that I was already wearing beneath my robe.

By 6:23, I stood in front of the bedroom mirror and evaluated the result.

My dark-blonde hair was pulled into a high ponytail, the ends curling neatly despite the rushed effort it had taken to achieve them. A fitted navy skirt fell just below my knees, paired with the cream blouse and a charcoal blazer that made me look more rested than I felt. Five-inch nude heels completed the outfit, because apparently I enjoyed making practical decisions until footwear became involved.

The woman in the mirror appeared polished, capable, and entirely prepared to negotiate an acquisition worth more money than most people would earn in several lifetimes.

Only I knew she had spent the previous half hour threatening kitchen appliances.

I leaned closer to the mirror and applied a final layer of lipstick.

“You are calm,” I told my reflection. “You are competent, prepared, and completely in control.”

My reflection looked skeptical.

“I don’t need that attitude from you.”

My phone rang from the kitchen before I could continue the argument.

The ringtone told me it was Rose.

I considered letting it go to voicemail, but Rose possessed an almost supernatural ability to know when I was avoiding her. Ignoring one call would lead to three more, followed by increasingly dramatic messages asking whether I had been murdered, arrested, or abducted by someone who would regret choosing me as a victim.

I answered while shoving my laptop into my bag.

“You’re up early.”

“I teach second grade,” Rose replied. “I’m always up early. You sound like you’ve been running.”

“I am efficiently preparing for work.”

“You overslept.”

“I reject the accusation.”

“You absolutely overslept.”

I grabbed my raincoat from the closet and checked the kitchen clock again.

6:27.

“How would you even know that?”

“When you’re on schedule, you answer with ‘Good morning.’ When you’re late, you sound like I’ve interrupted a hostage negotiation.”

“I have an important meeting.”

“The one with the rich lumber guy?”

“He doesn’t just own a lumber company.”

“So he’s a diversified rich lumber guy.”

“Wood Enterprises owns manufacturing companies, commercial real estate, transportation networks, and a technology division.”

“Does he own trees?”

“I assume trees are involved somewhere.”

“Rich lumber guy.”

I found a travel mug in the drying rack, filled it with coffee, and took the first sip before realizing I had forgotten to add sugar. The bitterness hit my tongue with enough force to make my face tighten.

Black coffee was not coffee.

It was punishment disguised as productivity.

Rose continued talking while I searched for my keys.

“Did you at least look him up?”

“I researched his company.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“I don’t need to know what he looks like.”

“That is a tragic lack of curiosity.”

“I’m his attorney, Rose.”

“Technically, you’re the attorney for the company buying his company.”

“Exactly. Which makes your questions even less relevant.”

“I think attractive people are always relevant.”

“You teach children to use safety scissors.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Despite myself, I smiled.

Rose had been my best friend since our freshman year of college, when she discovered me crying in a laundry room after I accidentally turned an entire load of white clothing pink. She had offered me half of a vending-machine cookie, informed me that white was overrated, and somehow become a permanent part of my life before either of us realized what was happening.

She was one of the few people who understood that my tendency to work too much was not driven entirely by ambition. Work made sense. Effort produced results. Contracts had defined terms, arguments required evidence, and nearly every problem could be reduced to a set of facts if I worked hard enough.

People were considerably less predictable.

Rose was the exception.

“Dinner tonight?” she asked.

“Probably not. We’ll be working late if the meeting runs long.”

“You said that Friday.”

“We were working late Friday.”

“And Thursday.”

“That was also work.”

“Sara, your office would replace you before your desk chair got cold.”

“Comforting.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“You need something outside that building.”

“I have things outside the building.”

“You own two plants, and one of them is artificial.”

“The artificial one is thriving.”

Rose sighed with enough force to carry through the phone. “Call me after the meeting.”

“I will.”

“You always say that.”

“This time I mean it.”

“You always say that too.”

I ended the call while she was still laughing, grabbed my bag, and headed for the front door. The smell of burnt toast followed me into the hallway, where Mrs. Kowalski from the apartment across from mine was locking her door.

She glanced at me, then toward my apartment.

“Forget something?”

“My sanity.”

She nodded as though this answer confirmed a long-held suspicion. “You work too much.”

“Rose said the same thing.”

“Rose is smart.”

“I’m beginning to regret introducing you.”

Mrs. Kowalski smiled before disappearing into the stairwell.

I locked my door, walked three steps down the hallway, and stopped.

Had I unplugged the curling iron?

I could picture it resting on the bathroom counter. The cord might have been hanging toward the outlet. Or away from it. The memory was completely useless.

I returned to the apartment, unlocked the door, and checked.

It was unplugged.

Of course it was.

By the time I reached the underground garage, I was officially twelve minutes behind schedule.

Still manageable.

Seattle traffic disagreed.

The red brake lights in front of me stretched along the highway like a glowing warning from the universe. I tightened my hands around the steering wheel and stared at the clock on the dashboard.

7:18.

Under normal conditions, the drive to the office took twenty-three minutes. The navigation system currently estimated fifty-six, and the number continued climbing as if it enjoyed watching me suffer.

An accident had closed two lanes several miles ahead.

I took another drink of bitter coffee and tried to remain calm.

“We are not going to panic.”

A man in a silver sedan forced his way into the narrow space ahead of me without signaling.

I slammed on the brakes, sending the legal pad on my passenger seat sliding to the floor.

“Or we’re going to follow him home and release air from his tires.”

I breathed slowly through my nose and reminded myself that I had built a career by remaining composed when other people panicked. I could handle traffic. The meeting did not begin until nine. Even if I arrived at eight fifteen, there would still be enough time to review the files and repair whatever damage my morning had done to my appearance.

At 7:34, traffic had moved less than a mile.

My navigation system suggested an alternate route through the side streets, which seemed like a gift until I discovered that everyone else had received the same suggestion. Ten minutes later, I was trapped behind a garbage truck moving with the urgency of continental drift.

My phone chimed with a message from Mel.

Everything is ready. Daniel wants the final figures by 8:30. Are you close?

I stared at the screen.

Lying to my assistant felt morally questionable.

Traffic accident. Taking side streets. I’ll be there. Please put the revised liability schedule on my desk.

The three dots appeared almost immediately.

Already there. I also brought coffee. Real coffee.

Emotion tightened unexpectedly in my chest.

You deserve a raise.

I’ve been saying that for two years.

At least one person in my life remained dependable.

The traffic eventually loosened enough for me to make progress, and I spent the remainder of the drive mentally reviewing the acquisition.

Halston Avery wanted Wood Logistics because it held valuable municipal contracts and owned strategically located warehouses throughout the region. Wood Enterprises wanted a clean sale, minimal continuing liability, and a closing timeline that bordered on unreasonable.

My job was to protect our client without delaying the deal.

I knew every disputed clause, every exposure point, and every concession Daniel had authorized. I had been the one to discover the municipal amendment both legal teams had overlooked, and I knew the contracts better than anyone attending the meeting.

I had earned my place at that table.

More importantly, Daniel had finally begun treating me like a future partner instead of an exceptionally useful employee. If the acquisition closed smoothly, there was a realistic chance I would be considered during the next promotion cycle.

Six years of late nights, canceled plans, and weekends spent reading regulatory filings might finally become something tangible.

I was not going to let traffic ruin that.

At 8:36, I turned into the parking garage beneath the office complex.

Nine minutes to park and reach the conference room.

Difficult, but not impossible.

The first level was full. So was the second. On the third floor, a silver sedan pulled into the only available space just before I reached it.

I considered several actions that would have required me to surrender my license to practice law.

The fourth level offered nothing. Neither did the fifth.

At last, a vehicle began backing out on the sixth floor. I waited impatiently while the elderly driver adjusted his mirrors, checked both directions, paused for reasons known only to him, and finally cleared the space.

I pulled in with slightly more force than necessary, grabbed my bag and raincoat, and checked the time.

8:41.

I hurried toward the parking elevator, only to find a bright orange sign taped across the doors.

OUT OF ORDER.

I stopped so abruptly that coffee splashed over the rim of my cup and onto my fingers.

For several seconds, I simply stared at the sign.

“No.”

The elevator remained broken.

“You have one job.”

Nothing.

“Move people vertically. That is the full purpose of your existence.”

A man passing behind me gave me a concerned glance.

I offered him a tight smile. “Difficult morning.”

He increased his pace.

I turned toward the stairwell.

Descending six floors would have been unpleasant under any circumstances. In five-inch heels, while carrying a laptop bag, raincoat, and coffee, it became a personal endurance test.

My heels struck the concrete with a sharp, rhythmic click that echoed through the enclosed space. Each step reminded me how quickly the meeting was approaching and how much I was going to regret the return climb at the end of the day.

By the fourth floor, my breathing had quickened. By the second, the coffee cup felt as though it weighed fifteen pounds.

When I finally reached the skybridge, I checked my watch.

8:45.

The meeting was beginning.

“Shit.”

I ran.

I would like it formally noted that I ran remarkably well considering the shoes.

People moved aside as I hurried across the enclosed bridge, my ponytail swinging behind me and my bag striking my hip with every step. Rain streaked across the glass walls, blurring the buildings beyond them, while commuters created an obstacle course of umbrellas, briefcases, and people who believed walking three abreast was an acceptable way to move through public space.

A man looking down at his phone stepped directly into my path. I twisted around him and nearly lost my balance.

“Sorry,” he called after me.

“You should be.”

It was not my finest professional moment.

The lobby entrance came into view just as several people stepped out of an elevator. The doors remained open.

Finally, one thing was going my way.

I crossed the lobby as quickly as my aching feet allowed, slipped inside, and pressed the button for the twenty-fourth floor. The doors closed behind me, and silence settled around the polished metal walls.

I was alone.

For the first time all morning, I stopped moving.

Leaning against the back wall, I released a breath and listened to my heart pound from the run. Several strands of hair had escaped my ponytail, and I was reasonably certain the silk blouse was revealing more evidence of perspiration than its manufacturer had intended.

I checked my reflection in the mirrored panel.

My makeup had survived. Mostly. A faint burn from the curling iron remained hidden beneath my collar, and the escaped curls could be repaired in the restroom.

I looked harried, not incompetent.

There was a difference.

The elevator reached the ninth floor and slowed.

I picked up my coffee from the narrow ledge beneath the control panel and straightened as the doors began to open.

A man stood on the other side.

For one disorienting second, I forgot why I was late.

He was tall enough to make the elevator appear smaller, with broad shoulders beneath a perfectly tailored navy suit and the kind of athletic build expensive clothing could not disguise. His white shirt was crisp, his tie dark blue, and his polished brown shoes suggested a man who had never once left home wearing mismatched socks.

His hair was nearly black, cut short at the sides and left longer on top, where it had been swept back from his forehead. Several days’ worth of stubble shadowed his jaw, keeping him from looking too polished and adding an edge of roughness that made my stomach tighten unexpectedly.

Handsome did not seem sufficient.

Beautiful might have been closer, though I suspected a man like him would object to the word.

Devastating was accurate.

Then he looked at me.

His eyes were dark brown and startlingly warm beneath straight brows. The moment our gazes met, he stopped moving.

Not figuratively.

The man actually froze halfway through the open doors, one foot slightly ahead of the other and his expression transformed by complete disbelief.

I glanced over my shoulder.

There was no one else in the elevator.

When I looked back, he was still staring at me.

The intensity of his attention made warmth rise along my throat. Had something happened to my face during the run? Was there coffee on my blouse? Had my carefully curled ponytail transformed into something resembling roadkill?

I resisted the urge to check my reflection again.

The doors began closing, forcing him to step fully inside. Even then, he did not turn toward the buttons. He remained near the entrance, his gaze fixed on me as though I were something he had spent years searching for and had never expected to find.

The elevator resumed climbing.

Neither of us spoke.

The quiet became increasingly uncomfortable. I could hear the soft hum of the machinery above us, the faint rattle of rain against the building, and the uneven edge still clinging to my breathing.

His breathing was not entirely steady either.

That realization unsettled me more than his staring. This man looked like the embodiment of control, yet something about my presence had apparently knocked him off balance.

I cleared my throat.

“Are you all right?”

The question seemed to pull him back into the elevator, although he still did not look away.

“Yes.”

His voice was low and smooth, with a faint roughness beneath it that moved through me like a physical touch.

Heat curled unexpectedly through my stomach.

I tightened my fingers around the handle of my bag.

“Good.”

The elevator continued climbing, and he still had not selected a floor.

I glanced at the untouched panel before looking back at him.

“I think you forgot something.”

His gaze followed mine toward the buttons. The corner of his mouth moved, not quite becoming a smile.

“So I did.”

“I’ve found they’re generally an important part of using an elevator.”

That earned me the beginning of a real smile.

“I’ll remember that.”

“You probably should.”

He stepped toward the control panel and pressed the button for the twenty-fourth floor.

The same floor as mine.

Of course.

“There,” he said. “Disaster avoided.”

“I don’t know. It was touch and go for a moment.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, and the sound transformed his face. The intimidating stranger disappeared briefly, replaced by someone warmer and unexpectedly approachable.

I found myself smiling in return.

His attention sharpened instantly, and something in his expression made my pulse stumble.

“I was wondering if you would do that again.”

My smile faded.

“Do what?”

“Smile.”

The answer was too familiar, too intimate for a man whose name I did not know.

He seemed to realize it at the same moment I did.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the warmth leaving his expression. “That sounded far more personal than I intended.”

“It did.”

“I seem to be having difficulty with ordinary conversation this morning.”

“Maybe you need coffee.”

His eyes moved toward the travel mug in my hand.

“Does it help?”

“Not this cup. I forgot the sugar.”

“Difficult morning?”

“You have no idea.”

His gaze moved over me, not in the slow, intrusive way I had experienced from men before, but with an unsettling attentiveness that made me feel as though he noticed details I had failed to conceal.

“You overslept,” he said.

I blinked. “I did not.”

“Traffic.”

“Unfortunately.”

“You had trouble finding parking.”

My eyebrows rose.

“The garage elevator was broken.”

This time, I stared at him.

“How could you possibly know that?”

His gaze dropped to my shoes.

“There’s fresh concrete dust along the edges of your heels. The parking garage elevator is the only one in the building currently out of service.”

I looked down instinctively.

A pale gray film marked the sides of my shoes.

“You managed to reconstruct my morning from my footwear?”

“I’m observant.”

“That may be an understatement.”

The corner of his mouth lifted again.

“Now I’m wondering what else you’ve figured out.”

The comment should have been playful. Instead, he studied me for a moment with an intensity that made the elevator feel smaller.

“You care more about being late than you do about arriving perfectly put together,” he said eventually. “You would rather run through the building than ask someone else to cover work you believe is your responsibility, and despite everything that has gone wrong, you still haven’t spilled your coffee.”

I looked down at the cup.

“I came close.”

“But you didn’t.”

Our eyes met again, and for reasons I could not explain, that small observation felt significant.

The silence that followed was different from the first. It no longer felt uncomfortable. Instead, it settled around us with surprising ease, as though we had somehow bypassed the usual distance between strangers.

He cleared his throat.

“I should introduce myself.”

“I was beginning to think you had forgotten that too.”

“My name is Jaxon.”

I shifted the coffee into my other hand and offered him mine.

“Sara.”

His fingers closed around mine.

The world changed.

A sharp pulse of warmth moved through my palm and up my arm, settling in the center of my chest with enough force to steal my breath. It was not painful, nor did it resemble an ordinary static shock. It felt familiar in a way that made no sense, as though something inside me had recognized him before my mind could catch up.

Jaxon’s eyes widened.

He had felt it too.

For several seconds, neither of us released the other.

The elevator continued climbing while we stood there staring at our joined hands, both of us attempting to understand something that refused to fit inside logic.

I pulled away first and rubbed my fingertips together.

“Did you feel that?”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second.

“Static?”

Relief escaped me in the form of a nervous laugh.

“Oh, thank God. For a moment, I thought I was having some kind of medical event.”

His smile returned.

“You were worried?”

“My morning has been so spectacularly awful that spontaneous electrocution seemed possible.”

The laugh that left him was quiet but genuine.

“I’m serious. I burned breakfast, traffic recreated the apocalypse, the parking elevator was broken, and now I’m apparently shocking strangers before nine o’clock. If anything else happens, I’m going home and getting back into bed.”

His gaze softened.

“I hope the day improves.”

Something about the way he said it made the words feel less like casual politeness and more like a promise.

I looked toward the illuminated numbers above the door.

Only a few floors remained.

The realization carried a strange trace of disappointment.

“So,” I said, because silence suddenly felt more dangerous than conversation, “what brings you to Halston Avery?”

“I’m meeting with the executive team.”

“Then you’re the reason everyone on twenty-four has been behaving as though the building is on fire.”

“I sincerely hope not.”

“They have held three meetings about your meeting.”

“I didn’t realize I was so important.”

“I don’t think it’s you.”

“No?”

“I think it’s your money.”

The honesty of my answer seemed to catch him off guard.

Then he laughed again.

“I appreciate your candor.”

“I’ve been told it’s both my best quality and my greatest professional risk.”

“That probably depends on who is listening.”

“Exactly.”

The elevator seemed quieter after that, though perhaps I had simply become too aware of him to notice anything else. The scent of cedar and rain lingered between us, warm enough to make me imagine fireplaces and old libraries despite having no logical reason to associate him with either.

Jaxon went still.

His expression changed as though he were listening to something I could not hear.

“You keep doing that,” I said.

“Doing what?”

“Looking like someone is speaking to you.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face.

“I’m still waking up.”

I made a noncommittal sound, letting him know I did not believe him but had decided not to argue.

He took a slow breath, and something in his gaze became uncertain.

“I should apologize in advance.”

“For what?”

“I’m not entirely sure.”

“That is deeply reassuring.”

He smiled faintly, but the humor disappeared almost immediately.

Without warning, he stepped closer.

It was only one step, but the change in distance sent awareness through every part of me. I shifted backward instinctively until my shoulders met the elevator wall.

Jaxon stopped.

His eyes moved over my face, and regret appeared immediately.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to crowd you.”

He should have stepped away.

Instead, he remained close enough that I could feel the warmth of him and hear the subtle change in his breathing.

The scent of cedar deepened.

My pulse raced.

He closed his eyes and inhaled.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Near my neck.

I froze.

When his eyes opened again, embarrassment had replaced the intensity in them.

For one suspended moment, neither of us spoke.

“Did you…” I began.

His expression tightened.

“Were you smelling me?”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Yes.”

The honesty was so unexpected that I almost laughed.

“You just smelled a stranger in an elevator.”

“I realize how strange that sounds.”

“It sounds incredibly strange.”

“I don’t normally do that.”

“Sniff women in elevators?”

“No.”

“Good. I’d hate to think I interrupted a routine.”

A reluctant smile appeared.

“I am sorry.”

He looked genuinely mortified, which made it difficult to feel as threatened as I probably should have.

“For what it’s worth,” I said before common sense could intervene, “you smell nice too.”

The words left my mouth and hovered between us.

Why had I said that?

Jaxon’s expression softened into something so warm that my chest tightened.

“Thank you.”

The elevator chimed.

Twenty-fourth floor.

The doors opened.

Neither of us moved immediately.

Reality waited beyond him in the form of glass office doors, conference rooms, and the most important meeting of my career.

I stepped around him, and our shoulders brushed.

The same current of warmth moved through me again, quieter this time but impossible to ignore.

I stopped just outside the elevator and looked back.

“Try not to sniff anyone else today.”

His smile became almost boyish.

“I’ll do my best.”

The doors began closing between us.

Just before they met, his expression changed once more. The humor vanished, replaced by confusion and something almost desperate.

“Mate,” he whispered.

The doors closed.

I stood in the hallway staring at the polished metal.

“Mate?”

Perhaps he was Australian.

No. He had not sounded Australian.

Maybe it was a family expression, an unusual nickname, or a symptom of whatever had caused him to forget how elevator buttons worked.

Whatever the explanation, I did not have time to solve it.

I had a meeting.

I adjusted the strap of my bag, smoothed my blazer, and started toward the Halston Avery offices, doing my best to ignore the strange warmth lingering in my hand and the equally strange certainty that I had just walked away from someone important.

I reached the glass doors, where Mel was waiting with a fresh coffee and an expression that immediately became concerned.

“You look flushed.”

“I ran.”

“Your hair is coming loose.”

“Parking elevator.”

“Your lipstick is smudged.”

My hand flew to my mouth.

“It is?”

“A little.”

She handed me the coffee and studied me more closely.

“What happened in the elevator?”

“Nothing.”

The answer came too quickly.

Mel’s eyebrows rose.

“Interesting.”

“Nothing happened.”

“I didn’t say anything happened.”

“You implied it.”

“I asked a question.”

“Well, the answer is nothing.”

She smiled slowly. “Was there a man?”

I thought of dark eyes, cedar, warm laughter, and the word mate whispered through closing doors.

“No one important.”

My body reacted to the lie with an uncomfortable tightening in my chest.

Mel’s smile widened.

“That is not what your face says.”

“My face is dehydrated and under tremendous professional pressure.”

“Of course it is.”

She followed me into my office, where the familiar order of my desk and bookshelves should have calmed me. Everything had its place. Contracts, statutes, and evidence all obeyed rules.

Men who smelled strangers and caused electrical currents through handshakes did not.

I hung my raincoat, placed my bag beside the desk, and opened the acquisition file.

Clause seventeen.

Environmental liability.

Municipal assignments.

Closing timeline.

Normal problems with understandable answers.

Every time I blinked, I saw Jaxon’s eyes.

I pressed two fingers against my temples.

“Focus.”

Mel set the revised schedule beside me.

“You have four minutes.”

“I’m ready.”

“You don’t look ready.”

“I will be ready by the time we reach the conference room.”

“That is a very specific deadline.”

“I work well under pressure.”

She hesitated near the doorway.

“You really are okay?”

The teasing had left her expression.

For one moment, I considered telling her everything. A stranger had stepped onto the elevator, reconstructed my entire morning from the dust on my shoes, and somehow made me feel as though I had known him forever.

Then he smelled me.

Even in my own mind, it sounded absurd.

“I’m fine,” I said.

Mel did not believe me, but she nodded. “I’ll be outside.”

After she left, I closed the folder and stood. I smoothed my skirt, adjusted my blazer, and checked my reflection one final time.

Composed.

Competent.

In control.

I was Sara Collins, senior corporate counsel and the person in the building who understood the Wood acquisition better than anyone else.

Whatever had happened in the elevator did not matter.

Jaxon did not matter.

I collected my folder and walked toward the conference room.

As I approached, voices carried through the partially open door. Daniel’s familiar tone blended with several members of our financial team, followed by a lower voice that sent recognition moving over my skin.

I stopped.

There were thousands of men in Seattle with deep voices.

Probably.

Mel hurried toward me from reception.

“Sara, there you are. Daniel was about to send someone looking for you.”

“I’m here.”

She reached for the conference room door.

“This is the Wood team,” she said quietly. “Their CEO flew in from Montana last night.”

The door opened.

Everyone seated around the long polished table turned toward me.

At the far end of the room sat the man from the elevator.

Jaxon’s navy suit remained immaculate, his posture relaxed as he spoke quietly with the broad-shouldered man beside him. When his dark eyes met mine, recognition flared immediately, followed by warmth and an unmistakable trace of amusement.

Daniel rose.

“Sara, I’d like you to meet Mr. Jaxon Wood.”

Jaxon stood and extended his hand across the table as though we had never touched before.

“Ms. Collins,” he said smoothly. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Bastard.

This was going to be the longest meeting of my life.