Page 17 of Dial F for Finance

She flushes, which I file away for private viewing later.

The attendant appears, hovering with lunch options and a look that suggests someone should be making an HR-safe attempt at normalcy. Jenna takes the tray, opens the little container, and begins eating like it’s a negotiation and the cheese has just insulted her personally.

We work in silence for a while. She reads, annotates, makes notes for me to review, sometimes flipping a page with just enough ferocity to make it sound like a dare. I respond in kind, marking up one of the clauses in a way that’s borderline aggressive, and Jenna, not to be outdone, circles a figure in red and underlines it so decisively the paper nearly crumples.

I’m not sure if we’re collaborating or dueling, but either way, it might be the most erotic working lunch I’ve ever had.

I watch her for a beat, then signal for the attendant to bring us drinks. She sets another whiskey in front of me and offers Jenna sparkling water or wine. Jenna takes the wine.

“To relentless efficiency,” I say, lifting my glass as soon as we’re alone again.

She eyes me, then lifts her own glass. “To strategic fatigue.”

We drink.

If Nakamura wants us tired.

They have badly miscalculated Jenna Pemberton.

CHAPTER 3

Jenna

“Welcome, Mr. Cruz, Ms. Pemberton.” Sato bows to each of us in turn. “We hope your flight was restful.”

The Nakamura conference room is on the forty-second floor, and it’s doing its best to lull me to sleep. The lighting is soft. The chairs look ridiculously comfortable. The tea is steaming, and there’s a tray of small, immaculate pastries. Every detail is a decision. The lacquered table gleams without a fingerprint. The folders are squared to the same angle. On the far wall, Carmichael Innovations and Nakamura Biotech sit side by side in white text over charcoal, which is corporate for we are all pretending this is friendly.

Jet lag sits behind my eyes like a second person. I keep my face neutral and watch the room.

“We’re well rested, thank you,” Dominic says, smooth as glass. “We’re grateful for the warm welcome on such short notice.”

We sit. Eight of them across the table—Sato in the middle, three older board men in dark suits, a handful of juniors with composed faces and full notebooks. Dominic settles beside me looking offensively unbothered by transpacific travel. He loosens nothing, slouches nowhere, and still somehow projects the ease of a man on his second espresso in his own kitchen.

One of the older board members murmurs something to Sato in Japanese about the schedule being ambitious. Sato answers without looking at us.

I open my notebook.

“Before we begin,” Sato says, and gestures to the assistant at the tea station.

She fills my cup. I take a sip. “Excellent,” I murmur.

Her face warms a fraction. “Sencha,” she says in Japanese, pleased. “From Shizuoka.”

I answer her in the same clean Japanese. “Thank you. It’s very good.”

The temperature of the room shifts by about three degrees.

The assistant freezes mid-pour. One of the older men makes a sound that might be a cleared throat. Because what I’ve just told the entire Nakamura side of the table, without saying it, is that I have followed every word of Japanese spoken in this room since we walked in, and I intend to keep following it.

Dominic doesn’t react. He thanks the assistant in English and sips his tea like a man who notices nothing.

But under the table, his knee brushes mine.

Once. Deliberate.

My body goes hot at the contact, which I file under problems for later and ignore.

“Shall we begin?” Sato says.