Every Girl Wants A Moon

Chapter 30: Fear

The tension in the office was suffocating.

Chase stood by his desk, phone pressed to his ear, his free hand braced against the wood like he needed something solid to keep himself from snapping. His tie was loose, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hair was a mess—he'd clearly run his fingers through it a dozen times already.

I had seen him frustrated before. I had seen him stressed. But this was different. This was barely-contained fury, sharp and crackling like static electricity in the air.

I hesitated in the doorway, gripping the strap of my bag as I watched him.

"No," he snapped into the phone, his voice like steel. "That's not what we agreed to."

I swallowed. Chase could be ruthless when he wanted to be, and right now, whoever was on the other end of that call was probably regretting ever crossing him.

"I don't care what their projections say," he continued, pacing slightly. "Those numbers don't add up, and I'm not signing off on a deal that doesn't make sense."

I shifted my weight, my heart tugging toward him despite the warning signs flashing in my head. He hadn't noticed me yet, and I briefly considered slipping back out.

But then Chase let out a sharp breath, shaking his head in frustration.

"Figure it out," he bit out before ending the call and tossing his phone onto his desk.

Silence stretched between us.

I took a careful step inside, setting my bag down as I searched his face. His jaw was tight, his blue eyes still stormy with frustration.

"Rough morning?" I asked, my voice softer than I intended.

Chase finally looked at me, exhaling through his nose. "You could say that."

I studied him, unsure if he needed space or if I should try to pull him out of it.

"Is there anything I can do?" I asked cautiously.

Chase let out a humorless chuckle, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Not unless you can magically fix incompetent accounting."

I tried to keep my voice light. "I mean, I'm good, but I don't think I'm that good."

Something flickered in his expression, something that almost looked like amusement, but it was gone before it could settle.

"Just—" He shook his head, running both hands through his hair. "I don't have time to deal with this, and now I have to because no one else is capable of handling it."

I opened my mouth to respond—to remind him that he didn't have to take everything on himself—but he kept going.

"It's a disaster," he muttered. "A complete disaster. Every single person on this deal is an idiot. It's like I'm the only one who knows what they're doing."

Something about his tone—about the sharp edge of frustration laced with exhaustion—made my chest ache.

"Chase—"

"I don't even have time to be dealing with half this," he said, barely hearing me. "Now I have to comb through a hundred pages of reports that should have been correct in the first place, and—"

"Let me help," I said quickly, cutting in before I lost my nerve.

Chase turned to me sharply, his blue eyes locking onto mine for the first time since I walked in.

His frustration wasn't directed at me. I knew that. But standing so close to him, standing in the path of all that barely-leashed intensity, it felt like it was.