[Floris’ POV]
I wake slowly, wrapped in warmth I haven't felt in ages.
My cheek is pressed against something solid and breathing, my body curled into heat like a cat who's found the world's most comfortable sunbeam. I nuzzle closer on instinct, because my brain is still offline and this feels safe in a way sleep with usual nightmares rarely does.
Then I slowly open my eyes to the morning light and reality crashes in like a freight train made of mortification.
I'm in my suite, and Maverick is beneath me. In my bed.
His arm is loosely draped around my waist, and I'm practically burrowed into his chest like he's a human pillow I ordered from a very exclusive catalog.
I scramble upright so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to… I must have just… In my sleep, I apparently… This is so embarrassing, I'm basically a heat-seeking missile when I'm unconscious, and you were just there being warm and solid and—"
"Floris." His voice is rough with sleep, and he's looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. Soft, almost amused, like watching a small animal panic over nothing. "It's fine."
"It's not fine. I drooled on you. Did I drool on you? I'm a drooler. Gemma says I sound like a broken fountain when I sleep, which is both disgusting and weirdly specific—"
"You didn't drool." He sits up, stretching in a way that makes his shirt pull across his shoulders. I absolutely do not notice this. "Pack your things. After my morning meeting, we're checking out for the team trip."
Right. The team trip. James mentioned something about a winter lodge, which sounded fake because billionaires don't actually do cozy team-building retreats.
"The lodge thing is real?" I ask, still processing the fact that I spent the night using my fake fiancé as a body pillow. "I thought that was a joke. Like corporate wellness programs."
"It's an annual tradition," he says, standing and straightening his rumpled shirt. "Small team, high-pressure job. They deserve a reset, so I started it years ago." He says it casually, like it's nothing. "Three days. Team building. Mandatory fun."
"Mandatory fun sounds like an oxymoron, but okay."
I'm so filing this away: Maverick Finley, secret softie who arranges winter retreats for his employees. Clearly the kind of man who shows he cares through actions, not words.
***
The flight to the lodge is quiet, charged with something I can't name.
I busy myself with standard duties—drinks, temperature adjustments, professionally avoiding eye contact—but I feel his gaze on me constantly. Like a physical weight, warm and heavy on my skin.
Every time I glance toward his seat, those green eyes are already watching. Heat climbs up my neck, and I look away first because apparently that's my new survival strategy.
Avoid, deflect, pretend my heart isn't doing acrobatics every time he's in my peripheral vision.
When we finally arrive, the lodge itself is gorgeous—all exposed wood and massive windows overlooking snow-dusted mountains. It looks like a Christmas card achieved sentience and decided to become real estate.
Everyone settles in with the exhausted relief of people who've been trapped in metal tubes at thirty thousand feet for too long.
Derek and Marina claim adjacent rooms with the casualness of two people definitely not sleeping together. Sam, the co-pilot, immediately locates the hot tub and declares it his new home. The other two attendants disappear to unpack.
That evening, someone suggests games, and suddenly we're all gathered around the massive stone fireplace with drinks in hand and competitive spirits awakening. The lodge's living room is all crackling flames and comfortable leather furniture, and for once, I don't feel like an outsider looking in.
"Mafia," Derek announces, shuffling a deck of cards with the gravity of someone about to perform surgery. "Classic rules. Liars prosper. The innocent suffer. Just like real life."
"That's disturbingly nihilistic," I say, accepting my card.
I flip it over. Mafia. My poker face activates with surprising ease—apparently years of smiling through childhood trauma translate beautifully into party games.
The first round begins, and I am magnificent.
"It's definitely not me," I say with wide eyes when suspicion drifts my way. "I literally just learned this game exists. I'm a simple flight attendant. I don't have the strategic capacity for murder."
"She seems too innocent to be guilty and somehow to hide it with those shiny doe eyes of hers," Marina says, and I have to physically restrain myself from laughing.
I eliminate Derek first because he's too good at reading people. Then Sam, because he was getting suspicious. By round three, I'm the last killer standing, and no one suspects the sunshine girl with the earnest expression.
It's almost too easy—I've spent my whole life making people believe I'm fine when I'm not. Pretending to be innocent when I'm secretly a Mafia assassin is basically a vacation.
"It was Floris," Maverick says suddenly, and my heart stutters. He agreed reluctantly to join us even though I was the one who stayed silent during reassurances from the crew. But even though he seemed bored all along, those analytical eyes tracked everything. "She's been too quiet, too agreeable. It's suspicious."
"I'm always agreeable," I protest. "It's my whole personality. Ask anyone, I'm aggressively pleasant."
"You haven't deflected once when accused. Everyone else gets defensive. You just... redirect." His eyes narrow. "Classic misdirection."
"Or classic innocence, which is indistinguishable from misdirection if you're paranoid enough." I bat my lashes. "Are you paranoid, Mr. Finley?"
The vote goes my way anyway, but Maverick alone remains unconvinced as I systematically destroy the remaining townspeople. When my identity is finally revealed, the room erupts.
"Five rounds!" Sam shouts. "She survived five rounds! The tiny one is a sociopath!"
"I prefer 'emotionally versatile,'" I correct, grinning so hard my face hurts. "Also, all of you are terrible at reading people. I basically confessed twice and you still didn't catch on."
"You have to be on my team next game," Marina says, and there's something approaching respect in her voice. "That was genuinely impressive. Disturbing, but impressive."
I belong here.
The realization settles over me like a warm blanket, unexpected and overwhelming. For the first time since I started this job, I actually belong.
They're including me, laughing with me, treating me like part of the crew instead of an unwanted intruder. Marina just complimented me. Marina, who looked at me like a particularly inconvenient stain on her uniform for weeks.
My eyes find Maverick across the table without permission. He's still watching me, green eyes reflecting firelight, something unreadable in his expression. Heat curls in my stomach, familiar and dangerous.
I look away first. I always look away first.
The evening winds down gradually—drinks emptying, yawns multiplying, people drifting toward their rooms with promises to continue the tournament tomorrow.
I wait until the crowd thins before slipping into the hallway, thinking I've escaped cleanly. Thinking I can make it to my room without another encounter that makes my pulse do embarrassing things.
"You were avoiding me today." His voice comes from behind me, low and certain. "That's new."
I turn, and my mouth goes completely dry.
He's leaning against the doorframe in a soft sweater I've tried to ignore during the game—cashmere, probably, the color of storm clouds, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that have absolutely no business being that distracting.
No suit armor. No CEO mask. Just him, barefoot on hardwood, watching me with an intensity that makes my mouth go dry.