---
The office after 8 p.m. was another world.
Gone was the buzz of phones, the click of heels across marble. Gone were the voices, the tension of corporate warfare. What remained was silence. And him.
Emery stood by her desk, sorting through files when Nicholas's voice cut through the quiet like velvet over steel.
"Still here."
She turned. He was leaning against the doorframe of his office, sleeves rolled again, tie loosened just enough to be dangerous. The top button of his shirt undone. Casual. Lethal.
"You said the Prescott contracts had to be scanned and labeled by morning," she replied, lifting a folder. "Unless your standards have changed in the last three hours."
He smiled slightly. "Not likely."
She hesitated. Then, against better judgment, asked, "Why are you still here?"
His eyes found hers. "Because I don't like empty beds."
It took her a breath too long to answer. "That's not something most people admit in boardrooms."
"We're not in a boardroom."
He stepped into the light, the glass office bathed in the city's glow behind him—skyline turned into a backdrop of temptation and power.
"Come in."
It wasn't a request. It wasn't a demand either. It was a challenge.
Her heels clicked softly as she crossed the threshold into his space.
---
Nicholas's office wasn't like the others.
It was darker. Sleeker. Masculine in every detail. Mahogany shelves lined the walls, a private bar nestled beside a glass case that held vintage watches. The view behind his desk was a floor-to-ceiling window that offered all of Manhattan—and none of its warmth.
He poured whiskey. Two fingers. No ice.
"Do you drink?" he asked, offering her the glass.
"Sometimes."
She took it. Their fingers brushed, and the contact sent an unexpected spark up her spine. Not from the whiskey. From him.
He watched her too closely. Like he was peeling back layers she hadn't given permission to expose.
"You're not intimidated by me," he said.
She took a sip. It burned. "Should I be?"
"Most are."
"Then maybe you've surrounded yourself with the wrong people."
That made something shift in his expression. Amusement, maybe. Or something darker.
"You intrigue me, Emery Clarke."
She turned away, pacing slowly to the window. "That's dangerous, Nicholas Ashford."
"I'm a dangerous man."
"You're not as cold as you pretend."
He was behind her in a second.
She felt his presence—heat against her back, not quite touching. His voice lowered, silk-draped steel.
"No?" he murmured. "Then what am I?"
She turned her head just enough to glance at him. His jaw was close to her cheek. Too close.
"You're angry," she whispered. "Lonely. Brilliant. And bored out of your goddamn mind."
Silence stretched.
He stepped closer.
This time, their bodies did touch. Barely. Her shoulder to his chest. Her breath to his pulse.
His hand lifted—slow, deliberate—and brushed a lock of hair from her jaw. His fingers trailed lower, lingering just at the curve of her neck.
She didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
His touch was warm. Intimate. Like he had a right to it. Like he'd already imagined it.
"You're not afraid of me," he said again, almost like a confession.
"No," she breathed.
His thumb grazed her throat, just once. "You should be."
---
But he didn't kiss her. Not yet.
Instead, he stepped back, sharp and sudden. Like a man on the edge of something dangerous—and pulling back from the fall.
Her body was still humming when he crossed the room again.
"Go home, Emery," he said, voice cool once more.
She stared at him, pulse racing, lips parted.
"That's an order?"
"No," he said. "That's me... saving you."
She didn't reply. Just left the whiskey glass on his desk and walked out of his office without looking back.
But her hands were shaking.
And behind his cool expression, Nicholas Ashford's eyes burned.
---