Red Heat, Cold Steel

Chapter Three

By the end of my first week at Blackwood Enterprises, I'd learned three things:

One, Damien Blackwood was the kind of boss who didn't raise his voice—he didn't need to. His quiet, measured tone was sharper than any shout.

Two, he somehow expected me to read his mind. "Have the numbers ready for the Colter review by lunch" turned out to mean three different reports, all color-coded and cross-referenced, none of which he'd actually told me about.

And three, no matter how hard I worked, I couldn't escape the way his gaze followed me sometimes.

Not openly. Not in any way someone else would notice. But I felt it. The weight of it when I leaned across his desk to pass him a file. The way his eyes lingered for a beat too long when I brushed my hair behind my ear. The tension coiled so tightly between us that some days, I didn't know if I wanted to quit or lean across that desk and kiss him just to see if the fire from that night was still there.

⸻

It was Thursday afternoon when the real test came.

I was at my desk, carefully organizing contracts Damien had told me he needed by 4 p.m., when his voice cut through the quiet.

"Jordan. My office. Now."

The low timbre of it sent a shiver down my spine, even as dread coiled in my stomach.

I smoothed my blouse and stepped into his office. He was at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just slightly—an unintentional messiness that made my chest tighten. The faint veins in his forearms flexed as he flipped through a folder.

He didn't look up right away. "Did I—or did I not—say the Reynolds projections were due on my desk this morning?"

Heat crept up my neck. "You said to have them prepared for the board review tomorrow—"

"I said I wanted them today." His gaze lifted, cool but steady. "If I have to clarify every instruction twice, this arrangement won't last."

The sting of his words burned. I wanted to snap back, to tell him he hadn't been clear, that I was doing everything I could, that this job was already swallowing me whole. But then his eyes held mine, and something else flickered there.

Heat.

It was faint, buried under the steel of his expression, but it was there.

My breath caught.

"I'll have them in twenty minutes," I said softly, gripping the folder in my hands tighter than necessary.

He leaned back in his chair, studying me. His gaze dipped—just briefly—to where my blouse gaped slightly as I moved, then back to my face. His jaw flexed, as if he was grinding his teeth.

"Make it fifteen." His voice was low, rougher than before.

I swallowed hard and turned, feeling the weight of his eyes on me as I left the room.

By the time I returned with the corrected projections, my hands ached from typing and cross-referencing, but I kept my face neutral as I slid the folder onto his desk.

He glanced at it, then at me. "Close the door."

My pulse kicked. "Is there... a problem with the numbers, Sir?"

"Close the door, Jordan."

I did. Slowly. My heart was pounding against my rib cage. With Damien, I didn't know what to expect.

When I turned back, he was standing now, not behind his desk but leaning against it, arms crossed. His sleeves were still rolled, his tie still loose, and the faintest shadow of stubble traced his jaw. The air between us felt heavier than it had all week.

"You're competent," he said finally, his voice low. "But distracted."

My breath caught. "Distracted?"

His eyes met mine, steady and unflinching. "You're good at your job. But I can see it in the way you hesitate, the way your pulse jumps when I walk by. You're thinking about things that don't belong in this office."

Heat flared in my cheeks—and lower, a slow, traitorous ache I hated him for noticing.

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are," he interrupted, his voice dropping, quieter but sharper. "And so am I."

The words hung between us, charged and dangerous.

For a moment, neither of us moved. The hum of the city below, the faint tick of his watch on his wrist, the sound of my own heartbeat—it all felt deafening.

He pushed off the desk, closing the space between us by a single, deliberate step. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the cedar and spice of his cologne.

"This can't happen," he said, his voice a rough whisper. "Not here. Not again."

My chest rose and fell too fast. "Then stop looking at me like that."

His jaw tightened. "Like what?"

"Like you're still thinking about that night."

His gaze darkened, flicking to my lips for the briefest second before snapping back to my eyes. "Get back to work, Jordan."

It was an order, not a dismissal.

I turned to leave, my legs shaky, my pulse thrumming in my ears. The tension between us felt like a wire pulled so tight it was ready to snap.

And the worst part?

I wasn't sure I wanted it to hold.