“The conversation was moving quickly.”
“That’s not an answer.”
His eyes narrowed, but not with anger.
More like he was recalculating.
I knew that look.
I had watched him use it on investors, lawyers, executives and anyone else brave enough to challenge him.
This time, it was aimed at me.
“You’re right,” he said.
I nearly checked the room for hidden cameras.
He continued before I could comment.
“I was irritated.”
“With me?”
“With myself.”
That answer made no sense.
Elliot walked around the desk and leaned against its edge, leaving several feet between us.
Then he said, “You asked how much I heard.”
My stomach immediately remembered there were worse subjects than boardroom etiquette.
“No.”
“You did.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“I came into reception around the time you said, ‘One year, Elliot.’”
I shut my eyes.
Of course he had.
Of course the universe had not allowed me even the mercy of limiting my humiliation to the part where I called him hot.
“You heard all of it.”
“Most of it.”
“The coffee?”
“Yes.”
“The reports?”
“Yes.”
“Sienna?”
“Yes.”
I pressed both palms over my face.
“And the part where I accused you of not finding me pretty.”
His answer came more quietly.
“Yes.”
I turned toward the door.
“I’m resigning.”
“No.”
I stopped.
Slowly, I looked back.
“You don’t get to reject my resignation before I’ve technically submitted it.”
“I’m not rejecting anything.
I’m telling you not to make a career decision while you’re embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?” I repeated.
“I kissed your poster.”
“Five seconds, Miss Summers.”
My mouth fell open.
He finally smiled.
“That wasn’t stress.
That was commitment.”
I grabbed the nearest cushion and threw it at him.
Elliot caught it against his chest.
And laughed.
Actually laughed.
I had heard him give small, controlled chuckles during dinners with clients.
