Rufus can’t help but raise a brow in the wake of your words. Your obvious attraction to him lingers in the air, bolder than the espresso still cooling on his desk. Rufus steeples his fingers together, his eyes roving over the badge on your clothes. You’re still in college, interning with the company for the summer, but somehow good enough to land a position in his office. He’d be impressed if not a little thrown off.

A flicker of recognition crosses his mind: the confidence, the directness, the undeniable air of someone looking for validation in places they probably shouldn’t. He knows your type well, probably because he’s the same way. Daddy issues, concludes Rufus silently. “The media calls me young,” he finally says, leaning back in his office chair. “But I’m not so young.” He’s at least eight years older than you if not more. “Should I be flattered or filing a report?”