Page 71 of The Exit Strategy

I had every intention of keeping a professional distance from her, but the second my ass hits the chair, I slide it closer. Professional distance will never work for Junie and me, no matter how hard I try.

“Wilford’s the electrical contractor,” I say. “They invoiceon completion, not on schedule. The lag is normal.” At least it should be.

She marks something in her notebook, and I lean forward.

“I’ll need the completion sign-offs to document it.”

Look at me.

The demand almost slips out, but I keep my jaw clenched tight. The need for her eyes on mine has moved beyond a simple want and morphed into an obsession that will royally fuck me sooner rather than later.

“Cole.” How she can imbue my name with so much sass is honestly shocking.

“They’re in the supplemental binder,” I grind out, not because I don’t want her to have the information, but because the internal war of want and need is entering its final battle, and good intentions are no longer in command. “Green tab.”

This fucking woman still doesn’t look up, but she nods. That quick, precise acknowledgment she uses when information has been filed and cross-referenced and is already being connected to four other things I haven’t thought of yet.

Look at me.

My emotions are taking over.

Fucking look at me.

I’ve watched her work for four weeks now, and I still find it slightly alarming how easily she compartmentalizes. It’s like watching someone run a diagnostic on a system they’ve never seen before and getting results faster than the engineers who built it.

She’s completely oblivious to the torment pitching my heart against my mind right now.

I never should have touched her.

I never should have opened my heart again because now I fucking know it only beats the correct rhythm when she’s near.

The need to stand, to pace, to get the hell out of here is so strong I can’t think straight.

Fucking Juniper Mercer doesn’t lift her head. She doesn’t address me in any way, shape, or form.

And perhaps that’s what finally breaks me.

I’m at her side before I’ve blinked.

I wrap my hands around the back of her chair before my next breath.

The muscles in my arms burn with tension as I wrench her chair back from the table, drop to my knees between her now open legs, and thrust my fingers into her hair as I tug her face toward mine.

Caught.

Her attention. Mine.

Her lips. Open.

Her breath. Delicious.

I get close enough to feel it—that breath, warm against my mouth, carrying every unsaid thing between us—and I stop.

My forehead finds hers. My hands are shaking, which she can feel because her own hands now cradle my forearms. But she’s not pushing me away, and she’s not pulling me closer. We’re just one inch away from the only honest thing I’ve said in six years.

I close my eyes.

Say it. Just say it. One sentence, and the whole building comes down.