Page 97 of Claimed By The Other Brother

She doesn't look away.

"Then I'll make sure I'm available."

The double meaning hangs between us. Then sheturns and walks out, leaving me alone in the conference room.

DAY 15

It's past eight when I walk by Scarlett's office and see her still at her desk, laptop open, papers spread around her.

I knock on the doorframe. "You're still here."

She looks up, surprised. "So are you."

"I need to go over the media outreach plan. Do you have a few minutes?"

"Of course." She gathers the papers.

"Your office or here?"

"Mine. I have the full file there."

We walk down the corridor to my office. I close the door behind us—habit, not intention—and move to my desk where the crisis binder sits open.

Scarlett stands beside me, close enough that I catch the faint scent of her perfume. Something clean and subtle.

"The timeline for the independent audit announcement," I say, pulling out the relevant documents.

"Legal wants to wait another week. I think that's too long."

She leans over the desk, studying the papers.

"I agree. Every day we wait, the narrative gets away from us. We need to show action now."

Her hand reaches for one of the documents at thesame moment mine does. Our fingers brush. Both of us pull back.

"Sorry," she says, not looking at me.

"You're right about the timeline," I say, redirecting.

"Draft a statement for an announcement later this week. I'll push legal to move faster."

We spend the next thirty minutes going through the plan, making notes, adjusting strategy. It's all professional, focused. But there's an undercurrent I can't ignore—the way she bites her lip when she's thinking, the way her voice drops when she's making a point she's passionate about, the way the space between us feels charged.

Finally, she closes her notebook.

"I think we're set. I'll have the draft to you by tomorrow afternoon."

"Scarlett." I don't know what I'm going to say until the words come out.

"You should go home. It's late."

She glances at the clock.

"So should you."

Neither of us moves. Then she picks up her notebook and heads for the door. I watch her go, the door closing behind her with a soft click. I return to my desk but don't sit. Just stand there looking at the papers we were reviewing, her handwriting visible in the margins where she made notes.

This might be more of a challenge than Ianticipated.