17
WORTH
“You did what?” I practically roar, the sound bouncing off the glass walls of my office.
Henson just stands there, a stupid grin plastered across his face, like this is all some big joke. “I invited her to join the Singapore trip,” he repeats, casual as hell. As if he didn’t just light a match and toss it into gasoline.
I drag a hand down my face, trying to steady my breathing. My blood turns hot—I hate how easily my brother can get under my skin. “You had no right.”
“She’s working on the damn project, Worth. Why wouldn’t she go? You should be thanking me. It’ll be good for her.”
Good forher. Not for me. Not for my sanity.
I start pacing. The thought of Mya in Singapore—on the plane, in the hotel, on job sites with me—is enough to make my brain short-circuit.
Henson wants to put us in the same city, the same fucking meetings, side by side?
Christ.
“She’s not ready,” I bite out. It’s a weak excuse, and Henson knows it.
“She’s more than ready,” he fires back, crossing his arms. “I’ve seen her work. Mya is talented. Hungry. She should be getting exposure, not locked behind a desk.”
I glare at him, but he doesn’t flinch. He’s always been the calm and reasonable brother. The one who doesn’t let his cock dictate his decisions.
I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from balling them into fists. “You don’t understand.”
“I don’t? You’ve been off your game for weeks, Worth. Snapping at Dre. Ignoring Griffin. Hell, even Brianna noticed. You think I don’t know what’s going on here?”
My nostrils flare. “Drop it.”
He studies me for a beat, weighing whether to push. Finally, he shrugs. “Fine. But Mya is going. Deal with it.”
He turns to leave, and I follow him to the door, trying one last time to convince him it isn’t a good idea.
“I don’t want Mya there, Henson.”
And of course, that’s when Mya passes by my office. Her head jerks up, eyes widening like I just stabbed her in the chest. She gives me a glare but doesn’t stop, doesn’t say a word, just all but bolts down the hall.
Goddamnit.
That’s twice now she’s overheard me talk about her.
I rub my forehead. If I’m not more careful, she’ll have HR breathing down my neck, and honestly, she’d have every right.
I sure as hell gave her the ammo.
That’s why I’ve been avoiding her. Because a small, ugly piece of me is ashamed at the way I cornered her at the gala.
How I propositioned her in a corridor as if I wasn’t negotiating something that would rearrange her entire world.
Because if she looks me in the eye, I’ll have to own it—I’ll have to say I’m sorry. And I don’t know how to do that without saying everything else I’m not ready to say.
Henson shakes his head, but I snap, “Don’t fucking say a word.”
I don’t even think, just move. My legs carry me out of my office, after her. I’ve never run after a woman. Not once in my life. But here I am, following Mya through the office like a madman.
At the end of the hall, she darts left into the mail room. I glance behind me, then step inside after her, locking the door behind me.