Mailah looked down at the thick navy binder resting open on the oak desk, then looked back up at Grayson.
He hadn't moved an inch. His leather gloves remained clutched tightly in his broad hand, his dark wool coat hanging unbuttoned over his dark sweater. The deep, dark flush that had stained his collar had now crept all the way to the sharp line of his jaw and the tops of his ears, contrasting wildly with his usual pale, aristocratic composure.
"It is..." Grayson began, clearing his throat with a stiff, formal rasp, "an administrative draft. A preliminary assessment."
"An administrative draft?" Mailah repeated softly, stepping around the heavy oak desk until she was standing just three feet away from him.
