Naturally, I do not sit. I walk, deliberately, and place my folder on his desk.
“Per your subject line,” I say, “I’ve taken the liberty of drafting preliminary terms for review.”
One of his eyebrows ticks. “Preliminary terms?”
“Correct.” I open the folder and slide the top sheet toward him. It’s typed, single page, with narrow margins and neat bullets. He slowly pulls the paper to him and starts reading out loud.
“‘One. No gifts, stipends, or “policy-adjacent” support from King to Wrong. Two. No underground fights. Not even “sparring.” Not even “I tripped and my fist fell into a guy’s jaw.”’” Said jaw ticks a little. “‘Three. No elevator emergency stops during business hours (after hours subject to board approval and calendar availability). No discussing “us” during staff meetings, budget reviews, or in front of Ezra unless legally compelled by subpoena. Four. No calling me “Ms. Wrong” in that voice you use when you’re about to commit HR crimes.’”
Naturally, the smug bastard’s voice drops to the same tone I warned him not to use, and he continues reading.
“‘Five. No surprises at family dinners. King texts Wrong before showing up.’” He pauses reading and lifts his eyes to me. “The last one is harsh.”
I don’t reply and wait for him to continue.
“‘Six. If we do this, we do actual communication and not whatever feral telepathy we’ve been relying on. Seven. Wrong retains veto power over any public appearance that puts her job in jeopardy. Eight. If either party says stop, the other stops. No arguments, no wounded pride, no emotional acrobatics.’”
I keep my expression neutral while the tips of my ears burn. I added a few amendments to the agreement this morning after the elevator incident.
Noah’s eyes flick up at me over the page. “You wrote a contract.”
“Preliminary terms,” I correct. “I’ve accounted for potential amendments.”
He scans downward as his mouth ticks. “‘Clause nine. No touching below the neckline in office spaces unless door is locked, blinds are closed, and both parties have confirmed no scheduled interruptions within a fifteen-minute window.’” He looks up, amused. “Fifteen?”
“It’s an average,” I say in a carefully neutral tone, like I didn’t spend six minutes staring at that number before typing it. “It can be revised based on the data.”
“The data,” he repeats, savoring the word like it’s a dessert he plans to eat with his hands like a savage.
“The data,” I confirm with a nod.
“Great.” He pushes away and heads toward the door.
“Where are you going?” I blink at him with confusion.
“We are going to gather some data.” With that, he turns the lock and pulls down the blinds on either side of the door.
Next, he walks up to his desk, carefully rounding me, and moves everything to the side with one big jerk of his arm.
“Plant your ass here, Beatrice,” he says, pointing at the desk.
I swallow a sudden lump in my throat; this is not how I planned for our negotiations to go.
“Beatrice.” His voice drops to a growl. “Desk. Now.”
Even with his voice low and growly, I don’t feel cornered. The thought doesn’t cross my mind even for a second. I am free to go if I want to. But do I?
“What sort of data are we collecting?” I squeak.
“Anything you’re willing to share.” His eyes slowly roam over my body. My mouth goes dry. My brain, unhelpfully, supplies a slideshow of every time I’ve fantasized about this desk and him and me and absolutely no paperwork.
“Data,” I repeat faintly. “Right.”
“Right.” His smile is pure trouble.
I lift a finger. “Clause nine has conditions.”
He stills, and his gaze slides down my body like a yes. “List them.”
