She sits beside me, careful to maintain a professional distance. I can smell her perfume—the one I had sent to her apartment along with the dress. Light. Fresh. Nothing like the heavy, cloying scent Irina bathes in.
“Ms. Petrov,” I say, “this is my executive assistant, Rowan St. Clair. Rowan, this is Irina Petrov.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Rowan says, extending her hand.
Irina takes it with the enthusiasm of someone picking up a dead rat. “Likewise.”
I place my hand on Rowan’s knee under the table. The whisper of silk between us is offensive to me. I want the hot flush of her skin right up against mine. f**k this barrier.
But for now, I leave it be. Just the weight of my hand on her thigh.
She jumps, her eyes darting to mine in shock.
“Next quarter’s projections,” I say, as if nothin
