What the Moon Made

TOO CLOSE

“Impossible.”

I blink.

“I’m sorry?”

Mr. De Luca doesn’t answer.

He just stares at me.

And stares.

And—

Okay.

This is weird.

I glance behind me.

There is no one there.

When I look back, his eyes are still on me.

Maybe he does this to everyone.

That has to be it.

Some kind of billionaire intimidation tactic.

You don’t build a company worth billions of dollars by smiling warmly at people and asking about their weekend. You stare at them until they become so uncomfortable they sign over their assets and possibly their firstborn child.

It probably works.

It’s working on me, and I don’t even have any assets.

“Mr. De Luca?” Elena says.

His attention flicks to her.

Something passes between them.

I don’t know what.

But Elena’s expression changes.

Only slightly.

Her eyes widen before she catches herself.

Then she looks at me.

Back at him.

And very quickly back at me.

Great.

Now we’re all being weird.

“Elena.”

His voice is deeper than I expected.

I noticed it through the door, but hearing it without several inches of expensive wood between us is different.

Much different.

“Yes, sir?”

“Leave us.”

Two words.

Not rude.

Not exactly polite either.

Elena nods.

“Of course.”

She turns toward me. “Can I bring you anything, Ms. Bennett? Coffee? Water?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

I’m not fine.

My mouth is dry, my palms are sweating, and Theodore De Luca is still looking at me like I walked into his office carrying the severed head of one of his enemies.

But sure.

Fine.

I’m fantastic.

Elena leaves.

The doors close softly behind her.

And suddenly the office feels much bigger.

And much quieter.

Mr. De Luca still hasn’t moved.

I tighten my fingers around the strap of my bag.

Maybe I should say something.

He should say something.

It’s his office.

He’s the billionaire.

Surely there is some sort of rich-person etiquette that requires him to begin.

Nothing.

“Did I…” I clear my throat. “Did I come at a bad time?”

His eyebrows pull together.

“No.”

“You said impossible.”

His jaw tightens.

For a second, I think he isn’t going to answer.

Then he sets the paper in his hand on the desk.

“I was referring to something else.”

“Oh.”

Very convincing.

“Okay.”

His gaze moves over my face.

Slowly.

Not in a way that feels inappropriate.

Somehow, that’s worse.

It feels like he’s memorizing me.

My eyes.

My nose.

My mouth.

When his attention drops there, my lips suddenly feel too dry.

I lick them.

His entire body goes still.

Oh God.

Why did I do that?

Stop licking your lips, Willa.

Actually, stop having lips.

Problem solved.

I grip my bag tighter.

“Should I…” I gesture vaguely toward the chairs in front of his desk. “Sit?”

“Yes.”

The answer comes immediately.

I walk toward the chairs.

One foot in front of the other.

Very complicated stuff.

I’ve been doing it for twenty-eight years, and suddenly I’m intensely aware of every step.

I sit.

Cross my ankles.

Uncross them.

Cross my legs.

That feels too casual.

Uncross them.

Jesus Christ.

I settle for putting both feet on the floor.

Professional.

Normal.

A woman who definitely knows what to do with her legs.

I pull my notebook from my bag.

When I look up, he’s still standing.

Still watching me.

Then he moves.

And I catch it.

His scent.

I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before.

Maybe because I was too busy forgetting how chairs work.

It’s subtle.

Something dark and clean.

Cedar, maybe.

Something warmer underneath it.

Spice.

Smoke.

I inhale before I can stop myself.

Oh.

That’s…

That’s nice.

Really nice.

My stomach does a strange little flip.

I immediately look down at my notebook.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

We are not smelling the interview subject.

That’s not journalism.

That’s a restraining order.

His footsteps move behind the desk.

Theodore De Luca finally sits.

The desk between us helps.

A lot.

It’s enormous.

Wide enough that I can almost pretend I’m not extremely aware of the man on the other side of it.

Almost.

I click my pen.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

His eyes don’t leave mine.

“You’re welcome.”

“I know you’re busy.”

“I am.”

Okay.

Not a conversationalist.

Good.

Actually, that’s good.

I have questions.

He gives answers.

I leave.

Easy.

I glance at my notebook.

“I’d like to start with the redevelopment project. De Luca Holdings has acquired almost twelve acres on the north side, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And the company announced plans for mixed-use development, including residential housing and retail space.”

“Correct.”

I scribble a note.

“The press release also mentions affordable housing.”

“It does.”

“How much of the residential development will actually be classified as affordable?”

“Thirty percent.”

I look up.

That is higher than I expected.

“Thirty?”

“Yes.”

“Permanently?”

“For a minimum of thirty years.”

I write that down.

“That’s significantly more than the city requires.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

His mouth moves slightly.

Not quite a smile.

“You came prepared.”

“I try to.”

“I can see that.”

Something about the way he says it makes my cheeks warm.

I look back at my notebook.

“Why thirty percent?”

“The neighborhood needs housing.”

“Every neighborhood needs housing.”

“Yes.”

“But most developers aren’t voluntarily reducing potential profit.”

“No.”

I wait.

He waits.

I lift my eyebrows.

His almost-smile returns.

Tiny.

Barely there.

But definitely a smile.

Interesting.

“Is there a question, Ms. Bennett?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

I stare at him.

“Why are you voluntarily reducing potential profit?”

The smile becomes slightly more visible.

And…

Oh.

That’s unfortunate.

He’s even better-looking when he smiles.

Of course he is.

Why wouldn’t he be?

God clearly had a favorite afternoon.

“The short answer?” he asks.

“Preferably the honest one.”

His eyes sharpen.

I immediately regret saying it.

Not because it was rude.

Because he looks…

Interested.

Like I just did something he wasn’t expecting.

“The honest answer,” he says slowly, “is that I don’t need more money.”

I blink.

Well.

That’s one way to put it.

“And you believe that means the company should accept a lower return?”

“I believe there are things more valuable than maximizing return.”

“Such as?”

“Stability. Community. Families being able to stay in the neighborhoods they grew up in.”

My pen pauses.

That’s…

Not the answer I expected.

I glance at him.

He looks exactly like the photographs.

Actually, no.

That’s a lie.

He looks much better than the photographs.

But he has the same severe expression.

The same controlled posture.

The same expensive suit.

The same general aura of a man who could purchase a small island because somebody annoyed him.

And yet…

“That surprises you,” he says.

I realize I’ve been staring.

“No.”

One eyebrow lifts.

“Yes.”

Damn it.

I sigh.

“A little.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a billionaire.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I want to grab them out of the air and swallow them.

His eyebrow rises higher.

Fantastic.

My journalism degree is going wonderfully.

“I mean—”

“I know what you mean.”

“I didn’t mean that billionaires don’t care about people.”

“Don’t they?”

I stop.

Is he messing with me?

I study his face.

Nothing.

Then I notice it again.

That almost-smile.

He is.

Theodore De Luca is messing with me.

“I think you’re trying to get me fired,” I say.

This time he actually smiles.

It’s brief.

But real.

And devastating.

My stomach drops somewhere around my knees.

Oh, that’s bad.

That’s very bad.

I look at my notebook.

Questions.

Focus on the questions.

“So.” I clear my throat. “The community center.”

His smile disappears.

Not completely.

Just enough for him to look like Theodore De Luca again.

“What about it?”

“The company is funding construction but transferring ownership to the city after completion?”

“Yes.”

“And De Luca Holdings won’t retain any financial interest?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Same answer.”

“You don’t need more money?”

His eyes stay on me.

“No.”

Something about his expression makes me feel like we’re suddenly not talking about the community center anymore.

Which is ridiculous.

Of course we’re talking about the community center.

I look down.

“Okay.”

I move to the next question.

“You’ve also pledged—”

“What?”

I stop.

He leans forward slightly.

“I said you’ve also pledged—”

“I can’t hear you.”

I blink.

“You can’t hear me?”

“No.”

I stare at him.

The office is silent.

Completely silent.

I’m pretty sure someone could drop a paperclip three rooms away and we’d hear it.

“Oh.” I straighten. “Sorry.”

I speak louder.

“You’ve also pledged twenty million dollars toward—”

“No.”

I stop again.

“No?”

He stands.

My brain briefly forgets what we are doing.

He’s tall.

I knew that.

Obviously.

I’ve seen photographs.

I’ve read his bio.

Six-foot-four.

That number is just significantly more intimidating when six-foot-four is walking toward you.

He comes around the desk.

I tighten my grip on my pen.

Maybe he’s going to close the door.

No.

Already closed.

Window?

No.

We’re thirty-nine floors up.

Unless he’s planning on throwing himself out of it, I don’t see—

He reaches the chair beside mine.

Grabs the back.

And moves it.

The legs glide across the floor.

Once.

Twice.

Then he turns it.

Toward me.

Oh.

No.

No, no.

The desk was good.

I liked the desk.

The desk was my friend.

Theodore sits.

Directly in front of me.

Not beside me.

Not angled toward the window.

In front of me.

Our knees are maybe two feet apart.

Possibly less.

Definitely less.

This is unnecessary.

Deeply unnecessary.

“There,” he says.

I stare at him.

“There?”

“I can hear you now.”

“You couldn’t hear me from six feet away?”

“No.”

I don’t believe him.

At all.

But what exactly am I supposed to say?

Excuse me, Mr. De Luca, I think you’re lying about your hearing so you can sit unnecessarily close to me?

Yes.

Excellent.

Pulitzer incoming.

“Okay.”

My voice comes out quieter than before.

His eyes flick to my mouth.

Then back to my eyes.

I swallow.

Big mistake.

Because now I can smell him again.

Cedar.

Smoke.

Something warm.

Something I can’t identify.

It’s stronger this close.

Not cologne.

At least I don’t think it is.

It smells like him.

Which is a weird thought.

An incredibly weird thought.

I inhale.

Again.

Stop doing that.

His head tilts slightly.

My face heats.

Did he notice?

No.

Of course not.

People breathe.

That’s generally encouraged.

I look at my notebook.

Unfortunately, the words appear to have rearranged themselves.

I stare at the page.

Twenty million.

Community center.

Jobs.

Environmental impact.

Words I’ve known for years.

Words that suddenly mean nothing because Theodore De Luca’s knee is approximately eighteen inches from mine.

“Ms. Bennett?”

“Yes?”

“You were asking me something.”

“Right.”

I glance at my notes.

“You pledged twenty million dollars toward…” I pause.

He waits.

I know this.

I literally wrote it down.

“Toward…”

His mouth twitches.

Is he enjoying this?

Oh my God.

He is.

I narrow my eyes.

“Are you doing this on purpose?”

His expression becomes innocent.

It does not suit him.

“Doing what?”

I gesture between us.

“This.”

“Sitting?”

“Sitting there.”

“You’d prefer I stand?”

“No.”

“Then I’m confused.”

“You have an entire desk.”

“I do.”

“You were sitting behind it.”

“I was.”

“And now you’re sitting here.”

“Yes.”

I stare at him.

He stares back.

There is something almost predatory about the way he watches me.

Not threatening.

At least I don’t think so.

Just…

Focused.

Entirely too focused.

Like there is nothing else in the room.

Nothing else in the building.

Nothing else in the city.

Just me.

My heart beats harder.

This man probably has this effect on everyone.

That’s all it is.

The photographs.

The articles.

The money.

The suits.

The voice.

The whole Theodore De Luca thing.

He probably looks at everyone like this.

Assistants.

Business partners.

Waitresses.

Old women at charity galas.

Everyone.

I’m not special.

I’m just currently sitting in the chair directly in front of him.

That’s why it feels intense.

“Ms. Bennett?”

I blink.

“What?”

His eyes darken.

“Your question.”

“Right.”

I look down.

Twenty million.

There.

“You pledged twenty million dollars toward infrastructure improvements surrounding the development. Critics have argued that those improvements will accelerate gentrification. What’s your response?”

The teasing disappears from his face.

And just like that, we’re interviewing again.

He answers.

I write.

I ask another question.

He answers that too.

Slowly, I find my rhythm.

Housing.

Local businesses.

Construction timelines.

Environmental studies.

Traffic.

Employment.

He gives thoughtful answers.

Annoyingly good answers.

I push when something sounds rehearsed.

He doesn’t seem bothered.

If anything, he seems to like it.

Every time I challenge him, something shifts in his expression.

Interest.

Amusement.

Maybe respect.

And every few minutes, his eyes drift away from mine.

To my hair.

My hands.

My mouth.

Then back.

Always back.

I try not to notice.

I fail spectacularly.

“Last question,” I say.

His expression changes.

Barely.

But I catch it.

He doesn’t like that.

Which makes absolutely no sense.

Surely Theodore De Luca has better things to do than sit here while a nervous columnist interrogates him about zoning.

I glance down.

“This project is expected to take almost six years to complete.”

“Approximately.”

“That’s a long-term investment in one neighborhood.”

“Yes.”

“So where do you see De Luca Holdings in ten years?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

His eyes stay on mine.

The silence stretches.

I wait.

Finally, he leans forward.

Not much.

An inch.

Maybe two.

It’s enough.

His scent wraps around me again.

My fingers tighten around my pen.

“In ten years?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know.”

That surprises me.

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“You’re telling me Theodore De Luca doesn’t have a ten-year plan?”

His mouth curves.

“I had one.”

Had.

I catch the word immediately.

“What changed?”

His eyes move across my face.

Slowly.

My heartbeat stutters.

“You walked into my office.”

Everything inside me stops.

I stare at him.

He stares back.

My mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

Then his expression shifts.

The smallest hint of amusement appears in his eyes.

“Your newspaper,” he says calmly. “The interview wasn’t part of my schedule until three days ago.”

Oh.

Right.

Obviously.

My newspaper.

The interview.

Of course.

I laugh.

Too loudly.

“Right.”

His mouth twitches.

I look down and close my notebook before I can humiliate myself any further.

“Well. Thank you for your time, Mr. De Luca.”

“Theo.”

I pause.

“What?”

“Call me Theo.”

“Oh.”

I slide my notebook into my bag.

“Okay.”

I stand.

He stands immediately.

And somehow that’s worse.

Because now he’s close.

Very close.

I sling my bag over my shoulder.

“Thank you… Theo.”

Something flashes in his eyes when I say his name.

So fast I almost miss it.

His jaw tightens.

His chest rises with one slow breath.

There it is again.

That intensity.

That strange look.

For half a second, I wonder if I did something wrong.

Then I remind myself.

He probably does this to everyone.

Theodore De Luca is probably just…

Intense.

That’s it.

Some people are.

“Ms. Bennett.”

“Willa.”

The word leaves my mouth before I think about it.

His eyes sharpen.

I immediately wish I could take it back.

Not because there’s anything wrong with telling someone my first name.

He already knows my first name.

It’s probably written in his calendar.

But something about giving it to him feels strangely personal.

“Willa,” he repeats.

My name sounds different in his voice.

Lower.

Rougher.

My stomach tightens.

I smile because I don’t know what else to do.

“Have a good day.”

I turn toward the door.

Three steps.

Four.

My hand reaches for the handle.

“Willa.”

I stop.

Slowly, I turn.

Theo hasn’t moved.

He’s standing beside the chair, watching me.

Again.

That look.

I wait.

He seems like he’s going to say something.

For several seconds, he doesn’t.

Then—

“I’ll see you again.”

Not a question.

A statement.

I blink.

“Oh. If there’s a follow-up for the article, I can email Elena.”

His jaw shifts.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

I smile politely.

“Goodbye, Theo.”

I leave before he can say anything else.

Elena is at her desk.

She looks up when I walk out.

Then past me.

Toward his office.

Her expression does that strange thing again.

Surprise.

Concern.

Something else.

“Everything go well?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

I adjust my bag.

“I think so.”

The elevator arrives.

I step inside.

The doors begin to close.

Just before they meet, I glance toward Theodore’s office.

He’s standing in the doorway.

Watching me.

My stomach flips.

The doors close.

I stare at my reflection in the polished metal.

My cheeks are pink.

My hair is slightly messy.

I look…

Flustered.

Very flustered.

I press the button for the lobby.

“Get a grip, Willa.”

The elevator begins descending.

Thirty-eight.

Thirty-seven.

Thirty-six.

I can still smell him.

I look down at my blazer.

That’s ridiculous.

He didn’t touch me.

He barely came close enough to—

I stop.

Cedar.

Smoke.

Warmth.

It’s faint now.

But it’s there.

I pull the collar of my blazer toward my nose.

Nothing.

I lower it.

What the hell?

Thirty-two.

Thirty-one.

I shake my head.

I’m imagining things.

That’s all.

Anxiety.

Adrenaline.

An extremely attractive man sitting too close to me.

Normal biological reactions.

Nothing weird.

Nothing important.

And Theodore De Luca definitely doesn’t look at me any differently than he looks at everyone else.

By the time the elevator reaches the lobby, I’ve almost convinced myself.

Almost.