The Billionaire Asset

4: Ava

The next morning, the office felt different. The tension from the night before hadn't dissipated; it had simply settled into the marrow of the building. I was hyper-aware of everything—the sound of the executive elevator, the murmur of voices in the hall, and especially the heavy silence coming from the corner office where Lucas Reed sat.

I tried to focus. I really did. I had three spreadsheets open and a cup of black coffee that was finally the right temperature, but my mind kept replaying the way his nose had brushed mine. I could still feel the phantom heat of his chest against my back.

To compensate for my lack of focus, I threw myself into the data. When I’m deep in thought, I have habits I’m barely aware of. I bit my lower lip, my pen tapping a restless rhythm against my chin. When a particular line of code in the merger software frustrated me, I reached up, hooking a stray lock of hair behind my left ear, only for it to fall back down seconds later. I did it again. And again.

I didn't realize I was being watched until I looked up and saw the reflection in the glass partition.

Lucas was standing in the doorway of his office. He wasn't moving. He wasn't checking his watch or barking orders at an assistant. He was just leaned against the frame, a cup of coffee in his hand, watching me.

Our eyes met in the glass. He didn't look away. Instead, he walked over, his pace unhurried. He didn't stop until he was standing at the edge of my desk, looking down at the scattered papers.

"You do that when you're stuck," he said. His voice was clearer today, but still carried that low, gravelly undertone that made my skin prickle.

"Do what?" I asked, looking up at him.

"The hair," he murmured. He reached out, and before I could pull away, his fingers grazed my temple. He tucked the stubborn strand of hair behind my ear for me. His touch was feather-light, but it felt like a bolt of lightning. His fingertips lingered there for a heartbeat too long, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin of my lobe. "You’ve done it fourteen times in the last twenty minutes."

I felt the heat rush to my cheeks. "I didn't realize you were counting."

"I notice everything about you, Ava," he said. The statement wasn't a compliment; it was a confession. It felt heavy and possessive.

He pulled his hand back, but he didn't move away. He leaned a hip against my desk, looking at me with an intensity that made me feel like he was reading my secrets instead of my spreadsheets.

"You drink your coffee black, but only after it’s sat for ten minutes. You tap your pen in groups of three when you’re annoyed with a calculation. And you have a habit of narrowing your eyes at the screen like you’re trying to intimidate the data into behaving."

I swallowed hard, my throat feeling tight. "You’ve spent a lot of time studying my 'background' habits, Mr. Reed. I thought you were a busy man."

"I'm a man who pays attention to his most valuable assets," he countered. He shifted his weight, his thigh inches from my hand on the desk. "I wanted to know what makes you tick. I wanted to see if the woman was as sharp as the reputation."

"And?" I challenged, my pulse beginning to race.

"And I think you're a distraction," he whispered, leaning down so his face was level with mine. "A very dangerous, very beautiful distraction."

He reached out again, his hand moving toward my face, but he stopped himself just short of touching me. I could see the battle behind his eyes—the struggle between the controlled billionaire and the man who wanted to pull me across the desk and find out exactly how I tasted.

The air between us was thick with the scent of his cologne and the raw, electric hum of attraction. I looked at his mouth, remembering the way it had been so close to mine the night before. I wanted to reach out and touch the sharp line of his jaw, to see if he was as solid as he looked.

"Is that why you’ve been watching me all morning?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"I haven't been able to do anything else," he admitted.

He straightened up then, the mask of the professional CEO sliding back into place, though his eyes remained dark. He tapped the desk twice with his knuckles—a sharp, final sound.

"Finish the report on the European holdings, Ava. I want it on my desk by three."

He turned and walked away, his stride confident and powerful. I watched him go, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. He noticed the hair. He noticed the coffee. He noticed me.

I reached up and touched the spot where his fingers had been. My skin was still warm. I knew I should be focused on the numbers, on the job, on the career I had worked so hard to build. But as I looked at the screen, all I could see were those dark blue eyes watching me, waiting for me to break.