The office door swung open with a groan and Darren strode in, face squeezed and annoyed, thoughts spiraling.
The room was well arranged as he expected: mahogany desk gleaming like polished bone, leather chairs squat and bloated as if stuffed with the carcasses of lesser men, and his carpet was so plush it seemed to suck at the soles of his polished loafers.
He smelled coffee and saw the cup on his desk, right beside his computer. Darren walked up to it, picked it up and took two big gulps of its content.
Harper Bell stood near the desk, a microfiber cloth in one hand, her dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail that grazed the collar of her fitted black blouse.
Since Darren entered, her gaze had not left him. Her green eyes were soft as they searched his face, as if waiting for a crack in his armor. To show mercy.
"The office is done, sir," she said, her voice low and careful, threaded with a warmth she couldn't quite suppress. "Everything's in order. Just the way you like it."
