He didn’t look directly at the half-closed laptop, but I knew he noticed it.

“Just tired,” I said, forcing a small smile. “The numbers are running together.”

“Then stop for tonight,” he said.

He leaned against the edge of the desk, just inches away from me.

I could smell the faint scent of cedarwood and rain on him.

“The Romano shipping division has survived for thirty years without you working past midnight,” he added.

“I wanted to finish this batch,” I said.

He looked at me for a long moment, his dark eyes searching my face.

“Is there something else?” he asked.

“No,” I lied.

He knew I was lying, but he did not press me.

“I will be in the study downstairs if you need anything,” he said.

“Don’t stay up much longer.”

“I won’t,” I promised.

He turned and walked toward the door.

He paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder.

“Lock the door when you go to sleep,” he said softly.

Then he was gone, closing the heavy oak door firmly behind him.

I waited until his footsteps faded down the long, carpeted hallway.