The morning of the coffee meeting began like any other except for the part where I woke up at 4:30 a.m. and couldn't stop staring at the ceiling.
By six, I was already dressed, already pacing my living room with a cup of coffee that tasted like regret. The skyline outside my window bled soft orange against steel and glass, and the city stirred beneath me like a beast stretching in slow motion.
Normally, mornings like this made me feel invincible. Untouchable. Like I was already ten steps ahead of the world.
But today?
Today I was counting the hours until eleven like a condemned prisoner watching the clock.
"It's just coffee," I said to the empty room, my voice cutting through the hush like a blade. "One hour. Nothing more."
The echo didn't argue.
By seven, I was at the office, because burying myself in work was the only way to quiet the pounding in my chest. I locked myself into back-to-back meetings, approved contracts, and ripped through a quarterly review like it had personally insulted me.
But no amount of productivity could scrub his name from the inside of my skull. Skillar. That smile. That maddening calm, like he saw through every layer of armor I'd forged.
By ten forty-five, I snapped my laptop shut and told myself I didn't care if this made me look desperate. I was leaving early.
The café was one of those boutique places tucked between glass towers downtown, all exposed brick and Edison bulbs, the kind of spot where venture capitalists whispered over flat whites. I picked it because it was neutral territory. Public. Safe.
And because it had an exit on both sides.
I arrived ten minutes early, claimed a table in the back, and ordered a black coffee I didn't want. My blazer was sharp, my lipstick sharper, and I kept telling myself this was business. Strictly business.
Except I'd checked the mirror twice before leaving.
And chosen heels I knew made my legs look like sin.
I hated myself for that.
At eleven on the dot, the door swung open, and there he was.
Skillar.
He didn't just walk in when he arrived, like sunlight flooding a dark room. Black shirt, sleeves rolled, tailored trousers that fit like they'd been made for him. And that smile is lazy, warm, devastating.
My pulse leapt like it had been waiting for him all morning.
I straightened in my chair, spine steel, mask flawless.
He spotted me instantly, and something in his eyes flickered something I refused to name. Then he crossed the room, every step deliberate, and slid into the chair opposite mine like he belonged there.
"Oriana." His voice was smooth, dipped in something richer than charm.
"Skillar." I kept mine flat. Businesslike. Detached. Even though my heart was doing cartwheels behind my ribs.
"Thanks for agreeing to this."
"I almost didn't."
He grinned. "But you did."
God help me, that grin should be illegal.
"I read your proposal," I said, cutting straight to the point. My tone could have frozen molten lava. "It's… interesting."
"Interesting?" His brows lifted in mock offense. "That's all I get? I thought it was brilliant."
"You thought wrong." I sipped my coffee, ignoring the way his gaze lingered on my mouth like he was memorizing the curve of it.
"You're a tough critic."
"I'm realistic."
His smile softened, just enough to slip past my defenses. "No. You're cautious."
That landed like a strike to the gut not because it was wrong, but because it was too damn right.
I set my cup down carefully. "What do you want, Skillar?"
He leaned back, all casual confidence, one arm draped over the back of his chair. "What do you think I want?"
"An ego boost? A challenge? A woman to ruin for sport?"
That wiped the smile clean off his face. His eyes darkened, heat simmering under the surface. "Is that what you think of me?"
"Yes," I lied. Because anything else was too dangerous.
For a long beat, he just looked at me. Really looked like he could strip the truth straight from my bones.
Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, and the world narrowed to the space between us.
"I want a chance," he said softly.
The words were simple. But the way he said them steady, unflinching made my pulse stumble.
I swallowed hard. "A chance for what?"
"For you to see that you don't have to do everything alone."
My throat went dry. My body screamed to move either toward him or as far away as possible.
"This isn't a therapy session," I snapped, too sharp, because the alternative was breaking.
"Then make it business," he said smoothly. "Approve the proposal. Partner with me. Let's do something that matters."
My jaw clenched. Because damn it, I wanted to. Not just because the idea was good and brilliant but because saying yes meant keeping him close.
And that was the one thing I couldn't afford.
"You don't give up, do you?" I murmured.
"Not on the things worth fighting for." His eyes locked on mine, and suddenly the air between us was thick, charged, dangerous.
I looked away first.
The silence stretched, heavy with things neither of us said. My pulse was a war drum in my ears.
Finally, I pushed back my chair. "One hour," I reminded him. "It's been fifty-eight minutes."
He stood too, slow and smooth, and for one dizzying second we were inches apart. Close enough that I caught the clean scent of him, something crisp, with a whisper of cedar and danger.
My breath hitched. His eyes dipped just for a fraction of a heartbeat to my mouth.
And God help me, I wanted him to close that distance.
But I didn't move. Neither did he.
Instead, he smiled a low, knowing curve that made heat lick down my spine and stepped back.
"Until next time, Oriana."
I watched him walk away, every line of him burned into my mind like fire across paper.
And when I finally sat back down, my hands were trembling.
That night, in the cold sterility of my penthouse, I told myself it was still business. Still in control.
But when I closed my eyes, all I saw was the way he'd looked at me.
And all I felt was how close I'd come to wanting more.