My heart stumbled over itself in my chest. Not the calculated kind of reaction I'm used to—this was pure idiocy, triggered by nothing more logical than the sight of her standing there, all that perfect Valentine posture starting to splinter around the edges.
"Do you keep looking at me?"
"You know I do."
Yeah. I did know. I just wanted to hear her say it out loud.
"So what do you want me to say?" I asked.
"I don't know." Her voice dropped to something quieter, something gentler. The kind of softness Vivienne Valentine probably rehearses hiding from cameras and strangers. "That's the problem. I don't know what I want you to say because I don't know what this is."
"This?"
She waved her hand in the space between us, a vague arc that somehow managed to encompass the two feet of ridiculously expensive carpet separating our bodies. "Whatever's happening. With you. And me. And." She stopped. I watched her swallow. "It's unprofessional."
"Yep."
"It's a terrible idea."
"Absolutely."
