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I follow her down a corridor lined with glass offices, everything shining and intimidating as all get-out. And then we stop at a door more imposing than the rest, and she gestures for me to go in.
"Mr. Merrick Mason will see you now."
Merrick. The name jolts through me like a live wire. No. It can't be.
But as I step inside, there he is—Merrick Mason, every inch the brooding, intense enigma I remember from fleeting encounters that left my skin tingling. His presence fills the room, a magnetic force that draws my gaze and holds it captive.
"Abby," he says, a ghost of a smile playing on those ridiculously kissable lips. "Please, have a seat."
I sit, but my mind's racing. Gratitude wars with suspicion, and it's a bloody battle.
"Surprised?" Merrick's voice is low, a smooth caress that's somehow both comforting and unnerving.
"Understatement," I shoot back, clinging to my usual sass like a life raft. "What's the game, Merrick?"
"No game." His gaze never wavers, dark and inscrutable. "I saw potential in you, Abby. That's all."
"Potential," I echo, the word feeling foreign on my tongue. It's hard to trust, harder still when it's Merrick offering the olive branch. But damn if I don't want to believe him.
"Take a chance on me," he says, and it's not a question. It's a plea wrapped in velvet steel.
So here I am, torn between the heat in his eyes and the cold feet dancing a jig in my stomach. I've always been a gambler at heart, though. And something tells me betting on Merrick Mason might just be the wildest ride yet.
* * *
Merrick
"Congratulations, Abby. You're hired." My words hang between us, crisp as a freshly printed contract.
She blinks, her eyes wide with a cocktail of shock and elation I've come to crave. The corners of her mouth twitch, fighting a battle against the gravity of disbelief before surrendering to a smile that hits me in the gut. Hard.
"Really?" Her voice is a mix of hope and wariness, a siren's call wrapped up in caution tape.
"Really," I affirm, letting the word roll off my tongue like a promise.
I lean back in my leather chair, the material creaking under the shift of my weight, mirroring the tension that coils within me. As she stands there, clutching her purse like a lifeline, I can't help but revel in the fact that she's mine now. Not in the way I want—no, not yet—but as close as I can get while still playing by society's rules.
"Welcome to Mason Enterprises, Abby. I expect you bright and early on Monday," I say, unable to keep the edge of command from seeping into my tone. It's a tone that says more than welcome aboard—it whispers of late nights and shared secrets, of a future teetering on the brink of possibilities.
"Thank you, Mr. Mason. I... I won't let you down," she stammers, sincerity bleeding through her usually fierce exterior. She's vulnerable, open, and it makes me want to shield her from every shadow that's ever darkened her world.
"Merrick,” I correct her. “Call me Merrick.”
She stares at me for a moment as if she’s trying to figure me out before she finaly nods.
As she turns to leave, her scent—a heady blend of jasmine and something uniquely Abby—lingers, teasing my senses. I watch her go, each step she takes away from my office tightens the invisible string that's tethered me to her since the moment I saw her.
I'm entranced by the sway of her hips, the determined set of her shoulders. She's oblivious to the weight of my stare, to the intensity of my focus. But that's how it needs to be—for now.
It's a fraught line I walk, this razor's edge between watching over her and stalking her. But as her new boss, I'm afforded a front-row seat to the unraveling of Abby's layers, each one peeled back revealing more of the enigma that fuels my desire.
The office door clicks shut, sealing her departure, but not the yearning that pulses through me. It's a craving that goes beyond the flesh—it's a hunger for her trust, her laughter, her light.
I lock my office door, the click echoing too loud in the silence. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, a stark contrast to the warmth Abby's laughter brought into this sterile space just minutes ago. My fingers skim over the desk where she sat, the wood still holding the ghost of her heat.
Get it together, man. I internally chide myself, but it's no use. She’s under my skin, a delicious itch I can't—and don't want to—scratch away. My thoughts are a jumble of longing and schemes, each more daring than the last, all for one purpose: to wrap Abby in a cocoon of happiness.
I flick off the lights and stride toward the tinted glass wall overlooking the city. Skyscrapers sparkle like fallen stars, each light a beacon of dreams just out of reach. But not for Abby. Not if I have anything to say about it.
