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“First of all,” I continued, “you didn’t fuck up. You liked Chris. You believed the best of him. You wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.” A benefit of the doubt that no one had ever shown Reagan himself, I thought but didn’t say. “That’s a good thing. That’s an incredible thing.”
Reagan frowned.
“Second, I was going to be on guard with the reporter no matter what you said. Because I don’t give reporters the benefit of the doubt.” I met his eyes. “My comportment around the media is on me.”
“But you trusted me,” he whispered, “and I?—”
“Did exactly what I trusted you to do, which is to give me your best. Your best work, your best advice, your best… you. I don’t trust you to be perfect. Jesus, Reagan. Who’d ever hold someone to that kind of standard?”
He swallowed without speaking, but we both knew the answer, and I deeply regretted every second I’d spent hearing Trent and Patricia sigh about Reagan without speaking up.
Never again, I promised myself.
“And third,” I said, “what did I tell you yesterday? You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone. You’re talented. And dedicated. And savvy. And good with people. You’re…” Beautiful. Irreplaceable. Important. “You’re good at a hell of a lot more than smiling for the cameras. So even if you do make a mistake someday—make the worst fuckup in the history of fuckups—you don’t for one second let that cause you to dim your damned light.”
Those gorgeous aquamarine eyes were so wide it might have been funny… if the moment hadn’t felt so significant.
“I don’t want to embarrass you,” he whispered.
My chest burned like every inhale had to pass through jagged glass. There was something incredibly wrong with this sassy, cocky man second-guessing himself. “Never. You will never embarrass me. You couldn’t.”
“Oh, I assure you,” he said ruefully, “I?—”
I set my hands on his shoulders and shook lightly. “Couldn’t,” I insisted. “I’m responsible for my choices. Fuck anyone who’s made you feel differently. That’s a sign of their own weakness.”
Reagan blinked. The dim lights of the restaurant corridor glinted warmly on his lashes. “So… you weren’t angry?”
“Not at you,” I assured him. “And even if I was, I still wouldn’t ever want you to be anyone but yourself.”
He swallowed. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed, drawing my eyes down to a throat I longed to map with my tongue. “So, you’re telling me that a ‘silver-tongued, provoking little shit’ is what Fortune 500 companies should look for in a public relations person?”
I felt myself smiling almost despite myself. It was a rare occurrence these days for someone to call me on my bullshit, and I couldn’t deny that was part of what drew me to Reagan.
One small part.
“If it’s not, perhaps it should be. I’ll ask HR to update the job description,” I teased, and he grinned. I shook him again, gently, because he was right there under my hands, finally. Because I could. “From now on, talk to me instead of doing the silent wallflower routine. It doesn’t suit you. Tell me you understand.”
His smile faded. “Yes, sir,” he breathed.
Tension jangled between us like wires stretched too tightly and on the verge of snapping. I wanted him saying those words to me naked and begging in the center of a large bed.
My head swam with memories. It had only been one night, but his submission had been enough to imprint on my brain for a lifetime. I caught myself swaying closer to him. The soft light in the corridor left sharp shadows across the planes of his face. His warm, unsteady breath fanned against my cheek. If I closed my eyes, I could almost feel the smooth skin under his eyes against the tip of my nose.
The clatter of plates startled me out of my inappropriate trance. I blinked at Reagan and took a decisive step back.
We were here for work.
Reagan Wellbridge worked for me.
I would not put him in the untenable position of thinking his boss was coming on to him.
I cleared my throat and nodded. “Let’s get back in there and charm some people, damn it.”
On my way back into the private dining room, I heard him release a sigh of relief behind me. The sound made my own shoulders unknot.
We hadn’t been back in the dining room for five minutes when Reagan began telling a funny story to a local textile executive about how the PennCo Fiber public relations team had welcomed him to the team by making him write a fictional press release in the style of a stand-up comedian. I knew Layla’s management style and Reagan’s exaggerated storytelling habits enough to know the story was most likely ninety-five percent bullshit, but it had the executive, along with several other people nearby, laughing their asses off.
Reagan then used the story to slip in several key points about Elustre’s natural fiber content and PennCo Fiber’s commitment to sustainability, but he did it in a way that didn’t seem obvious or sales-y.
