Page 68 of Ricardo

“Yes.”

He closes the folder in front of him and stands. “I’ll take you.”

Relief moves through me before I can stop it.

“Thank you.”

He reaches for his jacket, and I try very hard not to watch the way the movement changes him. One second, he is behind a desk in rolled sleeves and reading glasses. The next, he is all tailored suits and sexy authority.

“Do you need anything from your office?”

“Just my bag,” I say quickly, retreating backward toward the door. “And the whole thing should be quick. I won’t take up too much of your time.”

Ricardo pauses with his jacket half-buttoned.

“Julia.”

I stop in the doorway.

“I said I’ll take you.” His voice is even. “I did not say I was doing it with a stopwatch in my hand.”

My face warms. “I know.”

For a second, neither of us moves.

Then his expression softens by a fraction, though nothing about him feels softer. “Get your bag.”

I nod once and turn before my face can give away anything else. Behind me, I hear him speak briefly to someone outside his office, and by the time I reach my desk, my pulse has become skittish.

I grab my bag from the back of my chair, check for my phone, then double-check because I'm paranoid.

The file is still in my hand; I put it in my bag. My keys are in the inner pocket. My wallet is in the side pocket. My lipstick is rolling loose near the bottom because I had tossed it in this morning when I was running late.

I ended up arriving ten minutes early.

I zip the bag closed.

Then unzip it and make sure I have at least two pens. I have five.

I lift my bag onto my shoulder and step out of Mario’s office suite. I meet Ricardo at the end of the corridor next to the elevator bank.

He presses the call button, and we wait.

Feels like a much longer wait than usual with him standing next to me.

I notice how much other people notice him. A woman from Lorenzo’s team unconsciously straightens her posture as she walks past. Someone from Legal glances from Ricardo to me, then quickly back to her screen, suddenly fascinated by whatever is on it. Two men walking lower their voices as they walk past us.

Ricardo does not react to any of it.

The elevator doors open, and we step inside. They close again, leaving us alone in the small mirrored space.

I become aware of too many things at once: the lower vibration of the elevator, the mirror throwing my image back at me. The fact that we’re in a space small enough for me to catch the very alluring spicy scent of Ricardo’s cologne.

I keep my eyes on the descending numbers above the doors.

“Have you met Valecourt before?” he asks.

“No.”