I didn’t even knock.
I just walked into Fabian’s office like I owned the place—mostly because if I stopped to second-guess myself, I was gonna chicken out. Again.
He was behind his massive desk, typing something with that weirdly intense CEO-focus thing he does. Black shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair still a little damp from whatever cologne-drenched shower he took this morning. Disgustingly put-together. I hated that about him.
He looked up, and his eyes lit up in that barely-there way he does when he's genuinely surprised.
“Maurice,” he said, like my name was a question.
I closed the door behind me, clutching the folder. “You’re not dreaming, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
He stood. “So?”
I walked up, dropped the folder onto his desk. “So. I’m saying yes. To the place. To the who
