Page 90 of True Colors

I let out a long, exasperated noise. “Yes, she will be disappointed.”

“Stop thinking with your heart,” Erin continues. “Start thinking like a CEO.”

CEO. That’s the role I’ve been training for my entire life. The one my father is watching me perform tomorrow. The one that doesn’t leave room for hesitation. Or romance.

Pressure clamps down behind my sternum. “And what the hell does that mean?” I ask provocatively.

“That means you don’t let Anouk present because she sucks at it.”

“And you’re ready to present her data?” I can’t keep the sneer out of my voice.

She smiles, throwing her shoulders up casually. “You know I am.”

She would be. That’s Erin for you. No room for emotions, just get the work done, shoot the wounded, and move on.

“Anything else?” I ask softly because I need to be alone for a moment, so I can prepare for what’s going to happen with Anouk.

“No,” she says softly and leaves.

I walk away from the windows and brace my hands on the edge of my desk, staring into space.

She’ll be here in a moment, my starling, and I’ll tell her that I don’t trust her enough to carry the presentation.

And that’s the truth.

She’s not a reliable presenter.

This is business; it’s not personal.

Right?

Luther, this is leadership, so stop second-guessing yourself. You’re doing what needs to be done. And remember, your father and Martin will chew her up and spit her out over the way she stumbles.

She knocks softly, then steps into my office with her laptop hugged to her chest. Her scarf today is pale blue with white flowers. She’s wearing a linen sheath, the color of the sky on a warm sunny day.

Her hair is pulled back. She looks…beautiful.

“Hey,” she says softly. The smile on her face is just for me. Mine.

“Hey.” I walk to her, brush my lips to hers. I need the touch.

Her cheeks flush.

I lead her to the chair across from my desk and then take my seat.

Yeah, to do what I have to, I need distance now.

She sets her laptop down but doesn’t open it. She’s waiting.

I fold my hands together and pretend like this is any other conversation. Like this isn’t about to crack something fragile.

“First,” I say, “I want you to know how impressed I am with the work you’ve done.”

I’m following the sandwich model of giving bad news. You layer the shit between two slices of good.

Her lips curve. Hope and pride flicker in her eyes.

God, I’m going to crush her.