“I fail to see how carbohydrates improve productivity.”
“You will.” She smiles. It’s polite. Controlled. Weaponized. “Grab a plate.”
“I have my lunch here.” I tap the chopsticks against the plastic lid.
“Yes, very monastic.” She glances pointedly at my abandoned sushi. “Not very team-focused. Especially since you invited everyone.”
I stand slowly. Not because she taunts me. Not because the team cares. Because sitting suddenly feels like conceding ground.
I take a plate.
“Careful.” She whispers behind me. “The lasagna is popular.”
“Noted,” I growl.
I move past her, aware of her presence in a way I refuse to analyze. Too close. Too warm. Too familiar already.
She watches me take food. Watches me choose the smallest possible portion.
“Living dangerously,” she murmurs.
“I see you’re playing it safe.” I extend the fork toward her. “You didn’t have anything.”
She blinks rapidly, her eyes darting between me and the offered food. The air between us thickens. The chatter fades.
Somewhere in my mind, I question what the hell I’m doing. It doesn’t stop me. I move the fork closer to her mouth.
“I’m not hungry.” She swallows.
“Not very team-focused. Especially sinceIinvitedyou.”
Her fluster is endearing. There is that fucking word again.
She stares at me for a beat longer, and then she turns and grabs a small plate. “You didn’t.”
I chuckle. “Yet here you are.”
Her smile tightens. “Eat, Liam.”
She says my name like a challenge.
I comply.
This is not part of the plan.
The plan is proximity. Access. Information.
Not… banter. Not noticing the way her fingers drum once against her hip when she’s impatient.
Not the fact that she checks in on every single person in the room without hovering.
Leadership, not performance.
I respect that.
Very inconvenient. I came here to seduce. To manipulate. To extract what I need.
Instead, I’m pulled into a game. And I don’t even think we are playing by the same set of rules. And definitely not with the same objective.
