I blink. “No?”
“No.”
There is no apology in his voice. No teasing either. Just that blunt, immovable Jordan Richmond certainty.
My hands curl around the edge of his desk behind me. “You canceled your investor dinner.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“For you.”
The words land low in my stomach.
I should say something clever. Something bubbly and bright and safe.
I have nothing.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and the air in the office changes. It thickens. Warms. Turns dangerous around the edges.
“You think a story is the only thing we need to practice for,” he says.
My fingers tighten on the desk. “Isn’t it?”
“If a story were enough, I would have given you one and sent you home.”
My breath catches.
“What else is there?”
His hands slide closer on the desk, his body leaning in until his voice brushes over my skin.
“Being convincing.”
That should not sound filthy.
It does.
I lick my lips, then wish I had not when his eyes track the movement.
“Convincing in what sense?”
“As a couple.”
Heat climbs my neck, and I suddenly become very aware of how close he is, how wide his shoulders are, and how little air exists between his chest and mine.
“That sounds like a very vague lesson plan,” I whisper.
“It isn’t.”
“Do I get a syllabus?”
“No.”
“That feels unfair.”
His gaze stays on my mouth for one more second before lifting back to my eyes. “You already know the problem.”
