Fingers danced over a sleek tablet. "Ah, yes. Tenth floor. West corridor, last door on the right."
"Th… thank you." He turned, and his elbow caught the carrier. A coffee cup lurched, the lid popping free, brown liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. He fumbled, face burning, muttering apologies to the cup, to the air, to the receptionist who was already looking past him at someone more important.
Heart hammering, he made for the elevators, grip white-knuckled, palms sweating, the sweater suddenly too warm against his skin.
The elevator was empty, its walls mirrored. He stared at the numbers and refused to meet his own eyes.4. 5. 6. Each floor a tick of the countdown.10.
The doors slid open onto a different kind of quiet. The corridor was wide, carpeted in dense grey wool that swallowed sound. One wall was glass, the city sprawling below in a breathtaking, dizzying sweep. The other was lined with doors, each bearing a discreet nameplate in brushed steel. The air held the scent of old books and ink, expensive perfume, the ghosts of a thousand stories shelved and waiting.
He followed the signs for the west corridor, footsteps utterly silent on the carpet, acutely aware of his own body; the way his sweater brushed his arms, the slight pinch of his shoes, the softsound of his own breathing. He felt colossal and invisible all at once. A giant made of glass. A ghost made of flesh.
Then he saw it. The last door on the right.
LANDEN WATERS
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF.
Adriel stopped.
He straightened his sweater with a jerky, useless pull. Took a breath that did nothing to fill his tight chest. Raised his hand.
It trembled.
His knuckles met the wood. The sound was too loud.
A pause. A heartbeat. Then a voice, low and smooth, from the other side.
"Come in."
He pushed the door open.
The office was not what he had pictured.
Not the sterile aggressive modernity of the lobby, nor the hushed bookish gloom he'd imagined. It was spacious, bathed in clear morning light, one entire wall a sheet of glass offering a panoramic, dizzying view of the city skyline.
The other walls were lined with bookshelves, but not the uniform leather-bound sets of a film set. These were alive, crammed with a chaotic, beautiful mix of hardcovers and paperbacks, spines a rainbow of faded colors, many stacked horizontally atop the vertical rows because there simply wasn't enough room. Manuscripts occupied every flat surface that wasn't already claimed by art books or small, strange sculptures.It felt like the mind of someone brilliant and voracious, made physical.
And behind a wide desk of reclaimed oak, scarred and stained with decades of use, sat Landen Waters.
He looked up from a spread of photographs, and Adriel's breath simply left him.
Blond. That was the first, staggering thought. But not like Adriel's own dark honey; this was sharp, wheat-gold hair swept back from a high forehead in a way that seemed effortless. The face beneath it was all clean, elegant lines: a straight nose, a firm jaw dusted with just enough stubble to avoid looking like a statue, lips surprisingly full for a face so severe.
He was beautiful. Not in a soft, approachable way, but the way a finely honed blade was beautiful; intimidating, polished, radiating something sharp beneath the surface. His suit was deep charcoal, the fabric so fine it seemed to drink the light. His posture was relaxed, one elbow on the arm of his chair, long fingers resting against his chin.
Worse than Adriel had imagined. More real. More present. More completely, devastatingly out of reach.
"Mr. Alvarez." A warm, resonant baritone that carried without effort. He stood, unfolding himself to a height that made Adriel feel even more compact. "Come in."
Adriel stepped forward too quickly, his hip catching the corner of the bookshelf with a soft thud. Pain flared, drowned immediately by a hotter wave of humiliation.
"Sorry!" He thrust the coffee carrier forward like a peace offering. "I brought coffee. I mean, if you want it. You didn't ask. Sorry."
Landen's eyes, a cool, assessing grey-blue, like winter sky over the city outside his window, flicked from Adriel's flushed face to the proffered carrier. A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched his mouth. He reached out and took one of the cups.
"That's thoughtful." He accepted it as though Adriel had presented a rare manuscript and not a sloshing paper cup from the corner café. "Thank you."
He gestured to the chair opposite. "Please, sit."
