Everything was clean to a fault. Organized. The desks were spaced evenly, the artwork on the walls was actual art, not motivational posters with stock photos of mountains. People moved with purpose. Phones rang and were answered before the second ring. The whole floor hummed with the energy of people who were very good at what they did and very aware that someone was watching.
"PR is down that hall," Miles said, gesturing. "That’s my territory. Finance is on thirty-six. Legal is thirty-seven. You’ll mostly be on this floor, which is executive."
"And your brother’s office?" I asked.
"End of the hall. Corner. Big windows. Can’t miss it." He glanced at me sideways. "You nervous?"
"Should I be?"
"Nah. He’s just… particular." Miles chose the word carefully, like picking his way across a minefield. "He likes things a certain way. Once you figure out the way, you’re golden."
I raised a brow. "And before I figure it out?"
"You’ll be fine. Probably." He grinned. "Mostly."
I took a long sip of coffee and decided not to pursue that line of questioning.
"So," Miles said, steering me down a corridor lined with windows that overlooked the city, "how was your weekend? Did anything fun happen after our meeting at the diner?"
"Define fun. The only thing I did was visit the Wynwood Farmers Market."
"Did it involve enjoyment of any kind?"
"Well, I showered and did laundry after I came back home."
"Riveting." He grinned. "Nothing eventful at the market? Bought a candle? Tried some overpriced jam?"
I hesitated. Then figured, why not tell Miles about the stranger I bumped into. "I got assaulted by a stranger, actually."
Miles’s eyebrows went up. "Assaulted?"
"Okay, not assaulted. More like… aggressively encountered." I waved my hand, trying to find the right word. "There was a collision. And a coffee explosion. And this guy, this insanely rude guy, he acted like I’d contaminated him. Pulled out hand sanitizer right in front of me. Wiped his mouth like I’d poisoned him. Told me to never cross his path again. Real charming individual." I told him everything.
"Ahh… So what did he look like?"
"Tall. Dark hair. Glasses. Gray eyes. Expression like he was heading to a funeral he was in charge of."
Miles had stopped smiling. Not in a bad way, more like a man watching a train approach a cliff and realizing he sold the tickets.
"That does sound horrible," he said, his voice a fraction too even. "Why do I feel like I know the person you bumped into?"
"You don’t. Trust me. You wouldn’t associate with someone that unpleasant."
"You’d be surprised." He said it quietly, almost to himself, and I was about to ask what he meant when I saw him.
At the far end of the corridor, walking toward a corner office with a stride that didn't waste a single step. Same rigid posture. Same dark hair, immovable. But the ruined linen was gone, and in its place was a charcoal suit tailored so close to his frame it barely shifted when he moved—shoulders, lines, all of it precise, like even his clothes had been given instructions.
The floor tilted beneath my feet.
No.
My coffee cup dipped in my grip. I felt the lid shift, the warmth sliding toward my fingers, and I caught it just before it spilled—because apparently the universe thought one coffee disaster with this man wasn't enough.
No, no, no.
I grabbed Miles’s arm. "That’s him."
Miles stopped walking. "Who?"
