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“No, the company has a lot more.”
I roll my eyes, then pause, realizing he's not joking. My gulp echoes in the suddenly tense air.
“Does that scare you?” he asks a hint of challenge in his voice.
“It should scare you,” I retort, shoving the magazine against his chest. “You shouldn’t go around telling people that.”
"I'm not. You're not anyone, and I know you're not after my money. Plus, you mentioned you had a trust fund of your own."
"What if my trust fund is worth only ten thousand?" I challenge, my lips curling into a sassy grin.
"It's not," he counters, radiating utter confidence.
"What are you, the IRS?"
He laughs, a deep, hearty sound that fills the space between us.
"How do you know?” I push.
"Because you paid cash for your apartment," he says, a twinkle of mischief lighting up his eyes. "I overheard your realtor discussing your contract on the phone before you moved in. The door was open; they were still painting. I remember the pungent smell of paint fumes that day. I came to look over what my interior designer did and where I was going to move my stuff into her schemes.”
"Oh," escapes my lips as I uncross my arms and shift my gaze away, a wave of sadness washing over me. It's a trust fund I'd willingly relinquish in a heartbeat to bring my parents back.
“Hey,” Julian steps forward, extending a hand in empathy, but I instinctively recoil.
I flash him a look that screams, 'What are you doing? We're at work, and you're the boss, not the nice guy with twinkle lights.'
“I’m just sorting your mail, Mr. Sterling.”
He gives me a sharp look. “Remember, it's Julian here. ‘Mr. Sterling’ is for my father,” he says, with an underlying seriousness.
He doesn't want to be compared to his father, which makes me wonder if he has a daddy issue. Not that it's a big deal, but it makes me want to dig and find out why.
"What bothered you about my statement? Is it that I overheard?" he asks, his tone softening.
I shake my head, avoiding his penetrating gaze. My eyes drop to his shirt, and I start counting the buttons, a feeble attempt to divert my thoughts.
Eventually, I muster the courage to respond. "Just the memory of why I have the trust fund," I whisper, the words barely audible.
The silence that follows is palpable, filled with a breath of understanding. He reaches out again, his touch light on my forearm, a wordless expression of empathy. In the confines of our workplace, a hug isn't feasible, but I sense his intent, knowing his embrace would have been immediate in a more private setting.
Swiftly shifting gears, I say, “I never expected to get a magazine like this. They’re marketing custom jets like they’re just everyday items.”
“How would you market a private jet?”
I think of an ad with a sexy pilot and a private island. I bite back a laugh, feeling my cheeks warm.
“Well, not in a magazine. It’s got to be unique and exclusive. Like a secret club for the insanely rich.”
His gaze intensifies, almost undressing me. I clench my legs together, fighting the urge to just melt into him.
"What's your pitch to someone who can have anything?" He responds.
Are we still referring to the jet? Of course not. Julian could get any woman he wants, yet he's set his sights on little old me.
Does he want me to pitch myself to him? Jesus, I can't handle this. I need a mental line to Harper so she can give me a witty reply.
I continue talking about the jet because my brain is about to become putty. "I'd offer a gift from somewhere exclusive, a place not everyone can get to, Something rare and interesting."
