Page 34 of Executive Privilege

"So I'm fine, Sadie. A little altitude anxiety isn't going to derail a client campaign."

"Is that all it is? Altitude anxiety?"

He turns to look at me, and in the firelight, his expression is more open than usual. "Does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

"Why?"

Because I'm falling for you, I think. Because I want to know what shaped you, what scares you, what makes you human underneath all that careful control.

"Because we're friends," I say instead. "I care about you."

"Friends," Nicholas repeats, and there's something almost amused in his voice.

"What's funny about that?"

"Nothing. Just... I don't usually have friends who've seen me naked."

The comment sends heat through my core despite the casual delivery. "Maybe you should get better friends."

"Maybe I should."

We fall into comfortable silence, both of us staring into the fire and pretending we're not hyperaware of every point where our bodies touch. The marshmallow on my stick turns golden brown, and I extract it carefully to assemble a s'more.

"Want to try?" I offer, holding out the finished product.

"I don't really do s'mores."

"What do you mean you don't do s'mores? They're basically a legal requirement if there's a fire pit."

"I mean I don't usually eat things that were assembled around a campfire by someone else's hands."

I stare at him. "Are you serious right now?"

"I have particular standards about food preparation."

"It's a marshmallow, Nicholas. And chocolate. And graham crackers. I'm not performing surgery."

"Still."

I take a bite of the s'more myself, making sure to get some chocolate on my lips in the process. "Your loss. This is probably the best s'more ever constructed."

Nicholas watches me eat with an expression that suggests he's rethinking his position on campfire food preparation.

"Maybe just a small bite," he says finally.

I hold out the s'more, but instead of taking it, Nicholas leans forward and takes a bite while I'm still holding it. His lips brush against my fingers in the process, and the contact sendselectricity straight through me. I can't believe he would do that in front of our clients. But nobody seems to notice, thankfully.

"Verdict?" I ask, my voice slightly breathless.

"Not terrible," he admits, licking chocolate from his lower lip in a way that makes me want to do significantly more than share s'mores.

"High praise from someone with particular food standards."

"Don't let it go to your head."

There's something warm in his voice, something almost affectionate that makes my chest tight with emotions I'm not supposed to be feeling for my boss–his rules.