Page 28 of Executive Privilege

"Good. Because I was starting to think you regretted the whole thing. Again." I grab my shoes from where they ended up under his desk. "So let me get this straight—you can't keep your hands off me long enough to make it through one workday, but you're worried about boundaries?"

He sighs. "I'm not handling this well. I'm sorry. Do you want this to stop?"

The question hangs between us, weighted with the rules we've established. What I want is more complicated than what we agreed to, but I'm not stupid enough to say that.

"No," I say simply.

"Good." He sits back down on the couch, suddenly looking less like the composed CEO and more like the man who was just inside me. "Sadie, about today. I was being a coward."

The admission catches me off guard. "What do you mean?"

"I mean treating you like that, when we're obviously not strangers anymore. I was trying to prove to myself that I could compartmentalize this, keep it separate from work. But I can't stop thinking about you. It felt fake, and I think everyone knew it."

My heart unravels in my chest. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying maybe we can figure out something that's not quite professional distance and not quite... this." He gestures between us. "Something that acknowledges what we are without compromising our work."

"And what are we?"

Nicholas is quiet for a long moment. "I don't know. But I know I don't want to pretend you don't matter."

The words send warmth spreading through my chest, even though they're not exactly a declaration of love.

"I can work with that," I say.

"And Dallas?"

"Dallas should be interesting."

Nicholas reaches out and briefly touches my hand—a small gesture, but it feels significant after the emotional distance of today.

"Last night wasn't a mistake," he says quietly. "And neither was this."

"Good to know."

He stands up, straightening his shirt one final time. "We should probably leave separately. you should go first."

"Of course." I put my hand on the door.

"Sadie."

"Mmm?"

"Dallas is not going to be interesting. It's going to be fucking incredible."

Chapter 8: Dallas

The Morrison Industries headquarters in Dallas is a study in corporate evolution—traditional marble lobby updated with sleek modern touches, like someone tried to make their grandfather's bank feel contemporary.

"Ms. Reynolds, Mr. Blackwood," Morrison's CEO, James Morrison, greets us with the kind of firm handshake that probably comes with decades of country club membership. "Welcome to Dallas. I trust the flight was smooth?"

"Perfect," Nicholas replies, his professional charm dialed up to maximum efficiency.

The fifty-three-minute flight from Austin to Dallas was the most exquisite torture I've ever experienced. Sitting beside him in first class, close enough to smell his cologne, watching his hands as he reviewed documents, remembering exactly what those hands had done to me in his office yesterday.

We found our middle ground after our little post-couch conversation—polite professionalism at work, but not arctic distance.

"Your timing is perfect," Morrison continues, leading us through the lobby toward the executive elevator. "Our marketing team has prepared everything you requested, and I've cleared my schedule for the executive interviews."