Gianna could barely contain herself. Her knee bounced beneath the table, fingers laced so tightly on the desk that her knuckles pressed white.
"What do you think?" she asked, her voice slightly breathless with excitement.
Beside her, Vance looked like a man about to face an execution panel.
He sat stiffly on the round chair, shoulders hunched, eyes darting between Daphne and Mason as though expecting one of them to throw a shoe at him.
His hand trembled when he smoothed the front of his shirt. He had never—never—been in the room with both executives at once, except the day they rejected his first design for looking "too gangster-like."
The memory still singed him. They had told him to tuck his street nature away from work, and until then, his dependence on charity for his schooling had never felt like a wound.
