"The suit is irrelevant," he said, finally shifting slightly in his chair.
"Twelve thousand dollars isn’t irrelevant to anyone who isn’t you."
"It’s irrelevant to this conversation," he said, voice clipping by a fraction.
"It’s the entire conversation."
He looked up. I held his gaze. We stayed there, neither of us moving, and I could see the irritation building in the way his fingers paused on the cube. I’d learned to read that pause. Three weeks ago it would have scared me. Now I recognized it as the thing his face did when he was impressed and would rather chew through his own desk than admit it.
I switched tactics.
"Fine," I said. "Forget the bank transfer. I’ll buy you a replacement suit instead." I let that sit for a second. Then, with my most innocent voice: "Isn’t there some kind of awards ceremony coming up? You’d need something to wear."
The cube stopped mid-turn.
"Did my brother send you?"
"Nobody sent me."
"I’m not going."
"You built something remarkable, Mr. Hunter. Your company employs hundreds of people and makes games that matter to millions. Hiding in your office while someone else accepts your awards is a waste of everything you’ve earned. People should see the man behind the work."
He didn't answer. The cube sat motionless in his hands, and the quiet stretched long enough for me to hear the ventilation system, the distant hum of the dev floor, and my own heartbeat, which was louder than it had any right to be.
"Do you want to go?" he asked, finally.
I shrugged. "I’ve never been to a red carpet event. Wouldn’t be the worst night of my life."
His mouth twitched. Just barely. "Fine," he said. "Not the gala. The suit. You can pick one out." He set the cube down. "We’ll go to the mall."
Four seconds. That’s how long it took for my brain to catch up to what my mouth had done.
I had volunteered to buy a suit for a billionaire. On my salary. The man earned more before his morning coffee than I’d earn in a calendar year, and I’d just offered to purchase his clothing like I was doing him some kind of favor. This was what happened when I tried to be clever. Good intentions were just bankruptcy wearing a nicer outfit.
"Is Ms. Wilson changing her mind?" He was watching me. One eyebrow raised the tiniest fraction.
I forced a smile so hard my cheeks ached. "No. Of course not, sir."
We took his car. The drive was the good kind of quiet, two people sitting in the same space without needing to fill every second, and I spent most of it mentally calculating how many months of instant noodles it would take to recover from whatever price tag was about to ruin my life.
We pulled into the parking structure of a fashion house I’d driven past a hundred times and never entered, because the storefront alone radiated an energy that said my bank account was not welcome here.
But the place was strangely empty. No luxury cars lined up near the entrance. No shoppers drifting in and out with glossy bags hanging from their wrists. The showroom was usually packed with wealthy people treating retail like a competitive sport.
He stepped out of the car and came around to my side. And then he did something that made every thought in my head stop moving.
He held out his hand.
His gloved hand. The left one. The one I’d watched solve cubes and sign contracts and push elevator buttons with his elbow to avoid touching surfaces. That hand had never once reached for another person in the entire time I’d known him.
It was just there. Extended. Waiting for mine.
The black leather. The long fingers underneath. My heart picked up speed in a way I couldn’t blame on coffee, cardio, or anything other than the fact that Jace Hunter was offering me his hand, and my body apparently thought that was the most significant event in recorded history.
"Is this okay?" I asked.
"Should it not be okay?"
