Mariam Ayoife Olajide

CHAPTER ONE LINDSEY The elevator slows down to a stop, the door sliding open with a soft chime. Gingerly, I step into the sleek, state-of-the-art, glass-walled office of Goodman & Harper Firm. My heart is pounding in my chest. I mentally cursed myself for the umpteenth time. What the hell was I thinking, agreeing to take on this job? Of all places to seek employment, I had to end up at my dad’s best friend’s company. Not just working for him—working directly under him. Christ! This is Chris Goodman, whom we are talking about here. Chris Goodman. The mere thought of his name makes my stomach flutter with anxiety. He wasn’t just any boss. He is the boss. Forty-four years old, brilliant, and intimidating as hell, I have known Chris practically all my life. He was there at my christening; that is how far back we go. “Uncle Chris” when I was much younger—but right now, that title feels ridiculous. Especially after the way my innocent crush on him had evolved into something—well, less innocent. I adjust my suit skirt as I walk through the carpeted hallway, my heels muffled in the quiet space. Mentally, I adjust my clutch purse pressed tightly under my arm as I walk along. A few employees barely glance my way as I approach my destination. The CEO’s office. The double doors to Chris’s office beckon to me. I take a slow, deep breath and square my shoulders. Professional vibes, Lindsey. Be professional. I knock twice on the door, my pulse drumming audibly in my ears. A muffled “come in” follows, deep and commanding, sending a shiver down my spine. I push the door open and step into the space, forcing a smile even as my stomach twists into knots. One step at a time, and I am standing before Chris Goodman. Sitting behind his enormous mahogany desk, Chris’s dark eyes are fixed on his desktop, clicking away on the mouse. He barely glanced at me. “Lindsey,” he says, his tone clipped. “Mr. Goodman,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. It does feel strange addressing him so formally, but I know I have to keep it up. He is my boss, and I am his new employee. My grumpy, insanely attractive boss. “Do sit down,” he nods towards the chair facing him directly. He hasn’t changed much, I observe; his voice still holds the same low rumble, the kind that sends a jolt of awareness through me. I sink into the chair, smoothing my skirt over my knees, feeling his gaze sweep over me before he turns his attention back to his screen. Silence stretched thick and awkward as I waited for him to say something—anything. But still, he holds his peace. Wow. Isn’t this going fantastically well? After what seems like an eternity, Chris leans back in his chair, his eyes locking on mine for the first time since I walked into the room. His sharp eyes, taking in every detail, chin set in that stern, no-nonsense way as he always had. Something moves in his gaze that makes my breath catch. What was that look of surprise? Or something deeper? I swallow subtly, wondering about the way his eyes seem to pierce into my very soul. Gosh, it feels so surreal. “You understand what working here means, correct?” His voice is low, almost like a growl. “You won’t be receiving any special treatment or favors. You’re here to do a job, just like everyone else here.” My throat goes dry. “Of course,” I manage. Again, his piercing gaze lingers on me a second longer, making me feel aware of myself. Then he nods thoughtfully. “Great. Because if you so much as screw around here, I won’t hesitate to fire you.” I let his words hang in the air, cold and sharp like the autumn wind outside. I swallow hard, bile rising to my throat as I try to ignore the sudden feeling of dehydration. Fire me? I haven’t even started my duties yet, and I was already threatened to be fired. Yes, I knew Chris wasn’t exactly known for his warmth, but I hadn’t expected to feel the chill of it this early. I lift my chin and straighten in my chair, locking my gaze with his, refusing to let him see me flinch. “Completely understood,” I say, my voice steady but firm. “I wouldn’t expect any favors; I will do a good job.” Slowly, his eyes flicker to mine again, just for a brief moment, and I swear something shifted there—some flash of surprise, maybe. Or perhaps I am beginning to imagine things? Because that look is gone, replaced by his cold, hard, impassive stare. “Great,” he muses, “you learn pretty fast.” Chris Goodman didn’t do warm. No, certainly not. He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight as his strong arms fold across his chair. I watch him carefully, my eyes drawn to the tight muscles stretching under his shirt. The light from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him in a soft, almost ethereal glow, outlining the sharp lines of his face. Chris has the kind of face that makes people stop and stare—though he’d never cared enough to notice. His sharp jawline chiseled to perfection, like it had been carved from marble, with the slightest shadow of stubbing dusting his tanned skin. His rugged, effortlessly masculine look gives him the sharpest contrast. His nose is straight and prominent without looking overpowering, but it was his eyes that draw me in the most. Those deep, intense eyes—that held you in place. They were a shade of butterscotch brown so deep they almost appear black, framed by thick lashes even I get envious of. His dark hair as thick as always, those dark, impeccably groomed swept-back waves I have dreamt of running my hands through in episodes of my sexual fantasies of him. Every angle of his face is harsh and commanding, keeping me drawn in. I have to force myself not to stare for too long, but God, was it hard not to? How had he gotten more attractive with age? How is he aging backward? This is hard. He sits there with sheer confidence, his mere presence too consummating. As if reading my thoughts, Chris looks, catching me off guard. His eyes seeing straight through me, peeling away whatever mask I thought I was wearing. I shift in my chair, feeling like a bug under a microscope. I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear just to have something to do with my hand. “Your academic record is good,” he nods. “But this is the real world; I hope you’ve got what it takes to be a secretary.” Finally. Something to talk about. I am currently at the top of my class. ‘Good’ doesn’t exactly cut it, but what was I expecting from a ‘Grumpy CEO?’ “I’m not here to mess around, Mr. Goodman,” I force a small smile. “I have never been a secretary before, but I once worked in an office setting before, and I can always learn on the job. I’ll make sure I meet your expectations.” His lip titch, but it wasn’t a smile. The expression was gone before it could settle. “We’ll see,” he murmurs, low and almost dismissive, like I suddenly bore him. “I went through your details briefly, but now I’d like to hear more about your er- ‘work in an office setting.” Oh. He was listening? “Sure.” I take a deep breath and proceed to launch into details of my life, straightening in my chair as I remind myself of why I was here in the first place. I am going to do a good job of showing him that I identify as ‘Ambitious Lindsey Harper,’ not just the ‘Zachary Harper’s daughter’ he used to know. “I know this position might seem like a stretch considering my age,” I begin, watching his face detached from interest. “But I really have worked in an office setting before. Last spring, I interned at a small publishing house in downtown. Dreamy Eyes?” I pause, hoping to get a reaction from him. Nothing. But the smallest tilt of his head tells me to continue. “They are not as big and grand as Goodman & Harper, obviously,” I add, folding my hands on my lap to keep from fidgeting. “But they’re well known in the literary world. I worked in the editorial department, but I also handled a lot of administrative duties. Answering phones, scheduling meetings, keeping track of deadlines, and so on. I was the unofficial assistant to whoever needed me at the time.” Memories of those chaotic days suddenly come to mind. I can’t help but smile as the memories drift by. From juggling manuscripts while hastening to fetching coffee, and there was the sorting through endless stacks of submissions. It had been overwhelming at first, and I thought I would flop, but I enjoyed working there, and I handled everything with great accuracy and dedication. “I also learned how to manage different personalities,” I continue, shifting my gaze to his. “Editors, writers, promoters—different roles played—I had to figure out how to keep everyone happy while staying on the job. I liked the challenge; I felt useful.” His eyes remain on me, calculative, aloof. But he hadn’t interrupted; I guess that was a good sign? “I am good with organizing too,” I lean forward, taking all of my chances to please. “I know how to prioritize and keep things running perfectly well. I am not afraid to work, Mr. Goodman. I know what I signed up for; I am young, but I take this seriously.” Still no response, just his cool eyes reading me, yet unreadable. I feel my pulse quicken as I look into his dark, assessing eyes. So this is what it feels like to try to prove oneself to someone so imposing and nerve-racking. I have exhausted all my points. “I believe I can be a great secretary at Goodman & Harper because I am adaptable, quick to learn, and understand. I know you have high expectations, me too, and I won’t let you down. I’m here to work.” My last sentence hangs in the air between us. I let the silence build up, waiting for his reply, my heartbeat thrumming in my ears. I don’t know what I am expecting—acknowledgment? Praises? Or maybe even just a nod of approval? Chris gives me none. He leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. “Well. If that will be all, I hope you are right.” His tone is gruff as ever. “Because you won’t last long here if you can’t keep up. Mark my words.” This was a test. He had been pushing me to see if I’d flinch. But I certainly won’t give him that satisfaction. Instead, I meet his gaze head-on, determination burning inside me. “I’ll keep up,” I give him my word. Something flickers in his eyes—curiosity? It is replaced by that unreadable expression of his. “We’ll see then,” he says, turning back to his desktop screen. “Thank you,” I officially got the job! He presses a button on the landline phone on his desk, dialing. “Come to my office. Now.” Then he shifts his attention back to me. “That as my PA, Mike, he will supply you with all the files you’d need to start working today.” Right. “Yes, sir.” I unfold my hands on my thigh and decide to ask a question of my own. “If you don’t mind me asking,” I begin, testily, “what happened to the secretary before me?” His dark gaze sweeps over me. I can see the wheels turning in his head as he makes up his mind as to whether to answer me or not. “She began to feel more important than she truly was; no one is indispensable. I fired her.” Good Lord, I certainly didn’t see that coming. “Oh,” I manage. He nods at the desk over at the extreme right corner of the big office. “That’s your desk; go on and wait for Mike.” A dismissal, of course. I stand to my feet, smoothen my skirt over, and walk slowly towards the desk. It looks like Mr. Grumpy and I will be sharing the same office. How interesting! I come to a stop just in front of my new desk and rub my fingers on the shiny mahogany table, feeling pleased with myself. Goodman & Harper, here I come! I look back just in time to see Chris staring at me, but this time, it wasn’t the same impassive, cold gaze I’d grown accustomed to. His expression had changed completely, subtly, but it was definitely there, his eyes burning with something raw and unguided. Desire? Am I wrong? Heat, warmth, and sleek surge through me as I watch the way his eyes travel over my body, tracing the curve of my neck before snapping back to my eyes. A light switch seems to go off somewhere as he blinks, his jaw tightening. “Knock knock,” says someone at the door. CHAPTER TWO CHRIS “Come in,” I call out, feeling my stomach clench. Thankful for the interruption. I am glad Mike came around when he did. Lindsey had caught me staring at her, and the look on her face bothers me. What does she think this is? The door creaks open, and Mike, my personal assistant, strolls into the room with his usual crisp efficiency that never once faltered. Give it to Mike, a perpetually polished dude, perfectly fitted to dealing with the daily small crises that seem to pop up around me every now and then. He has a stack of files under his arm as he saunters to my desk, completely unaware of Lindsey’s presence at the corner. “Good morning, boss,” he salutes. I rub my hand across my jaw and nod once at his greeting. “Morning.” Here at Goodman & Harper, we don’t bother much with exchanging too many pleasantries; just carry out your duties with perfection, and we are good to go. “The files you asked for,” he makes to put the files down on my desk. I shake my head, stopping him. I nod at the corner. Lindsey is still standing, watching us. “Over there. She is the new secretary. Get yourself acquainted with her.” Mike turns around and looks over at the secretary’s corner. “Oh, sorry,” he chuckles once. “I didn’t notice you.” “Show her what she will be working on,” I mutter, disinterest clinging to my words. “Set her up.” “Yes, boss.” Subtly, I watch as Mike walks up to Lindsey, his hand extended for a handshake. “Hi, I am Mike Burnley, Mr. Goodman’s PA; pleasure to meet you.” Lindsey takes his outstretch hand, her smile genuine as the two shake hands. “My name is Lindsey Harper; pleasure to meet you too.” “Harper?” Yeah,” Lindsey nods; her gaze moves briefly in my direction. “Are you, by any chance, related to Mr. Zachary Harper?” Mike asks. Lindsey gives him a bright smile, lifting her chin. “Oh yes, he is my father.” “Wow,” Mike gushes. Their conversation is beginning to annoy me. “Get on with it,” I snap at them. “Oh, right,” Mike seems to snap out of it. This is your workspace.” Mike continues in his businesslike tone, clearly getting my drift. He points to the desk with the stack of neatly folded files waiting to be sorted out. He leans down and plugs in the desktop computer, the low hum of it filling the outlet as he begins laying out papers and documents. Lindsey looks on, paying attention as Mike works on setting up her desk. Leaning back in my chair, I watch them with a look that must scream indifference—but the kind of indifference that feels a little too deliberate. I don’t like this at all. Turning my attention back to work, I try to focus on the words on the screen. “You’ll be managing the scheduling first; Mr. Goodman will expect all meetings to be seamless. No room for overlaps, no errors. He is very particular.” I let out a low, irritated grunt; the mention of my own expectations annoys me for some reasons I can’t think of at the moment. Mike and Lindsey look back at me, the weight of their gaze heavy on my back. “These are the files for the current projects,” Mike continues, totally oblivious to—or simply ignoring—the tension in the room. “You’ll need to familiarize yourself with our clients’ names and details. Well, you can organize them however you like, but Mr. Goodman will want everything on his desk by nine sharp every morning.” Lindsey nods; she is scribbling down something in her notes. “Noted.” The tension in the room stretches tighter every second; the entire situation is already wearing me thin. Goddammit, I have a lot to do! Grumbling under my breath, I can’t tell if I am annoyed at the process going on at the other end or just Lindsey being here in my space. “Anything else, Mr. Goodman?” Mike asks, standing up straight as he finishes with the desk setup. I take my time looking up in their direction. “Just don’t make a mess of things.” Lindsey’s eyes are on me. I force a smile, noting the defiant expression in her eyes. Mike nods solemnly, takes one look at Lindsey’s desk, and sighs. “I guess that will be all for now.” “Alright,” Lindsey claps her hand once. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” Mike looks at the desk one more time, satisfied with it. “Good luck,” I hear him mutter under his breath just before he turns to leave the room. ‘Yeah,’ I think to myself. ‘She certainly will be needing a whole lot of that.’ The atmosphere becomes thick with tension—so thick you could cut through with a knife. Refusing to ease the awkward situation hanging in the air, I turn my full attention to work. My eyes are glued to the spreadsheet in front of me, though the numbers refuse to make any sense. Blinking, I try to clear my mind of the memory of Lindsey’s hips saying irresistibly as she walked to her desk, but my mind keeps drifting. No, not to the endless files piled high on my to-do list or the clients waiting for me to return their calls. My focus is pulled in another direction, a few feet away, toward the small desk in the corner where she sits. Lindsey Harper. My COO and best friend’s daughter. She is leaning forward on her computer, her fingers already flying across the keyboard with effortless energy. Lindsey, whom I have known all my life, is now all grown up and working for him. The faint sound of her typing fills the room—a quiet rhythm that somehow grates against my attempts to concentrate. Every now and then, she’d pause and nibble at her lower lip as her big blue, dreamy eyes flicked over her screen. Those eyes—Christ, I felt himself swimming in their deep blue waves. She had pulled him in with those big innocent eyes of hers, but the fire in their depth had been unmistakable. I rub the bridge of my nose, willing myself back to work but failing once again as my gaze betrays me. I am staring at her again, my thoughts spiraling back to how long it had been since I’d really looked at Lindsey. Back then, just a few years ago, she had been lanky, tomboyish, tall for her age, and still growing into her frame. A fresh-faced, enthusiastic college student with wide-eyed curiosity, always asking about anything that would fuel her intelligence. I hadn’t given her much thought back then—why would I? She was no more than Zach’s kid hanging around the office on rare occasions when Zach still worked here full-time. The woman sitting across from me was no kid. Her ginger hair, once wild and unruly, is styled now in soft waves that cascade down her shoulders, framing a face more striking than I’d expected. God, I don’t even know what I was expecting. Her skin is porcelain, smooth, and radiant; you can almost see through her. And then there are her lips. Full, slightly parted, as she stares at her screen. They look soft, definitely inviting. That was what struck me the most as I interviewed her. My throat goes dry; I think I need some water. As if on cue, Lindsey looks my way, her gaze lingering for just a beat too long before she turns back to her work. A small smile plays on her lips. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, my mind swirling on its own accord. Her curves have been so difficult to ignore—the kind of figure that was subtle but perfectly proportioned, making the light, professional blouse she has on seem criminally inadequate. The fabric clings to her just enough to suggest the shape of her little waist and the curve of her wide hips. I drop the thoughts in my thoughts like hot coal. What in God’s name is wrong with me? I am Lindsey’s boss, for heaven’s sake, and she is Zach’s daughter. Off-limits in every way imaginable. And yet, here I am, a fully grown man with more responsibilities than I care to worry about, getting lost in thoughts that I had no business entertaining. She is just a secretary, nothing more, nothing less. How hard can it be to just ignore her? Hours later, and I am still thinking about Lindsey. I guess I was wrong to think it would be easy-peasy to ignore her. It is simply impossible to forget the way she makes the air in the room seem a little denser, the way she draws my attention like a magnet. No matter how hard I try to focus on the task at hand, my mind keeps drifting back to Lindsey—those dreamy blue eyes, that soft ginger hair, those supple-looking lips. Everything about her is irresistibly hot. And it is driving me absolutely insane. “Mr. Goodman?” Lindsey says from her desk, already getting up to her feet. I avert my glance from watching her approach the edge of my desk, her heels clicking softly against the hard floor. The air is suddenly charged with electricity. “What is it?” “You have a meeting at noon, three p.m. to be precise,” she holds out a file. “I’ve got the full details right here.” I eye the file, my jaw tightening as I reach out to receive it. Our fingers brush for the briefest moment, just enough to send an unwanted spark up my arm, and I find myself getting pissed all of a sudden. My hands feeling unsteady, I leaf through the content of the file. “With the Henderson Brothers?” I ask, though it came out sounding more like a statement than a question. “Yes,” she confirms. “To discuss their new contract terms.” Still flipping through the file, I nod absently at her. I notice Lindsey shift from one foot to the other, feeling the tension in the air growing thicker the longer she stands there. “If that’ll be all?” I look up at her, feeling irritated. “Yes, sir. But you’ll need to leave in about forty minutes to make it on time,” she adds, her voice surprisingly professional. Good girl. I almost smile at her. “Right. Noted.” She nods once and turns back to her desk. Again, I watch her retreating back, her hips saying this way and that as she walks. Good Lord! Where had she learned to walk like that? Something tightens in my crotch as I struggle to look away. What is happening with me, for Chrissake? I can’t recall the last time a woman made me feel this way. Sure, I haven’t been with many women over the years, but I should surely remember if any one of the few women I’ve been with has ever made me ache and long for them like I am feeling right now! Feeling immoral for wanting Zach’s daughter in such a manner, I want to hit myself for even having thoughts that sexualize her. This is no good. She came here to work, and it’s just been her first day on the job. If her first day makes me feel like a dirtbag, how then will the coming days be? God. Such perverted thoughts. I am old enough to be her father. ‘Get a grip on yourself, Chris,’ I chastise myself. Tonight, I will work on these immoral thoughts of mine. And by tomorrow, I will resume work with a different man, having mentally put Lindsey in her place. As my secretary and my best friend’s daughter. I’ll make sure today never repeats itself again. With a push, I stand up to my feet and walk towards the door. “I will be leaving for that meeting right away.” “Oh,” Lindsey’s eyes go round. “But you still have a good half an hour before the meeting starts.” “Stick to your duties, will you?” I all but snap at her. “Your work hours end by four p.m., correct?” She nods once. “Yes, Mr. Goodman.” “Great. Go home. Don’t sit around waiting for me.” “Yes, sir,” her voice trembles a little. And with that, I slip out of the office, feeling a gush of fresh air flow through my lungs. It suddenly occurred to me that I had been feeling choked all day. Shit. I probably need to get laid. CHAPTER THREE LINDSEY It is another sunny, bright California morning, and yet another day to be Goodman & Harper’s dedicated secretary! I still can’t believe that I actually lasted yesterday under the strict directives of Chris Goodman. I wouldn’t say I left work unscathed, but well, I felt victorious nevertheless. Feeling giddy with expectations of what today will bring, I pull my car into the parking lot of Sweet Haven Bakery, the warm glow of the early morning sun already spilling over the glass storefront. The scent of freshly baked pastries wafts through the open door as I step out of my car and head for the building. The familiar jungle of the shop’s bell resounds as I step in. Grabbing a box of my favorite assorted pastries has become part of my routine—you know, one of those small, comforting rituals I’ve started since I started working at the firm. Day two alright, but a routine nonetheless, I laugh at my thoughts. Between the stress of managing Chris’s schedules and managing his temper, I guess a few sugar indulgences shouldn’t hurt. “Top of the morning to you,” the shop assistant greets me with a warm smile. I smile in return. “Morning. I’d like to pay for these.” I place the box of pastries on the counter. “That’ll be $18.00.” I make the payment, grab the box, and head for the door, my car keys dangling as I walk along. Using one hand, I unlock my car door and slide into the driver’s seat. Feeling a sense of accomplishment, I mentally praise myself and start the car engine. Surviving yesterday had been a lot. Hell, surviving today will take a lot, too, no doubt, but I am more than ready to meet any challenges that will come my way. Every day feels like a mental marathon, dodging Chris’s grumpy mood swings, managing his high expectations, and deciphering his curt instructions. Gosh! It’s been exhausting, but somehow I’d managed. Carefully, I navigate through the familiar streets and intersections leading to the firm. The city is starting to wake up, but I have a few moments to spend at the office before Chris arrives. I’d hate to begin the day with Chris breathing down my neck about punctuality. I pull up at the office building, grab my pastry box and my bag from the passenger seat, lock my car, and step into Goodman & Harper. Another day to navigate through the unpredictable waters that were Chris Goodman. But I was ready. I was born ready. “Good morning,” the receptionist at the entrance greets warmly. “Good morning, Ms. Grace.” Her smile is wide. “Oh, call me Grace. Just Grace.” Right. “Grace. Have a nice day.” “You too.” I guess we both can hope to have a good day. I chuckle to myself and step into the elevator. As I had predicted, the office is empty. No Chris Goodman around just yet. Good. Now it’s time to feast on my pastries and coffee. Sighing, I take a bite of the softest, sweetest croissant when I hear the unmistakable click of the office door swinging open. My heart stutters, and I freeze, pastry halfway to my mouth. Oh my! It is still way too early to have anyone around—especially him! I summon courage and glance sideways. Chris stands in the doorway. Those cold eyes of his narrowed as they zeroed down on me, as I’ve just been caught committing some sort of felony. From the look on his face, it was evident that he isn’t all that pleased walking in on me like this. He is dressed in his usual crisp, well-tailored dark suit, the fabric clinging to his broad shoulders. His tie is slightly askew, like he hadn’t put much effort into throwing the thing around his neck. He is looking at me like I am an object out of place in his office, as if my very existence here is an annoyance. I quickly swallow the half-chewed croissant in my mouth and give him my most innocent smile, though it seems to make his expression colder. He shuts the door behind him with a soft thud and walks over to his desk, his silence deafening. “Good morning, Mr. Goodman.” I wipe my fingers on a napkin, keeping how rattled I feel to myself. I do not get a response. “You’re here early,” I venture. Chris grunts audibly. He drops his briefcase on his desk with a heavy thud. “And you’re here eating in the office,” the annoyance in his voice evident. “I don’t pay you to lounge around eating pastries. Didn’t you read the rules around here?” Wonderful. I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at his comment. “I’m sorry, but I had no idea there was a no-breakfast rule in the office,” I casually wipe my fingers on the napkin. “Is that in the handbook, or is it just a personal preference of yours?” My tone is light but teasing. “It’s called professionalism,” Chris shoots back, his gaze piercing. “Because heaven forbid anyone gets caught snacking on pastries so early in the morning. What a scandal, shouldn’t you know better?” To drive a point home, I take another bite of my croissant, chewing slowly, matching his reaction. I know he is my boss and all that, but I came in too early just to do this; he is the one out of place at the moment. He wasn't supposed to be in until a good twenty minutes later. Chris jaw tightens, and for a moment, I thought he planned to lecture me. But instead, he just stares at me. “You really think this is funny, don’t you?” I think I have carried on way too far; I decide to quit. “I guess it’s a little funny,” I reply with a shrug, still holding the croissant in my hand like I have no intention of stopping. “Do you know, maybe a little sugar would improve your sour mood? Would you like some, Mr. Goodman?” His eyes darken. There is a flash of annoyance, sure, but something else lingers there too. “I don’t need a pastry to do my job, Lindsey.” “No?” I push, holding out the box of pastries towards him. “Are you sure, Mr. Goodman? I hear a good croissant can work wonders. Maybe lighten the mood here a bit.” I see his lips twitch, like he is fighting a smile, but he quickly masks it, his cold expression hardening again. “You’re impossible,” he lets out a rough sigh. “Well, I’ve been called worse.” He gives no reply to that, but I can feel the shift in the air—the tension. And no matter how grumpy or annoyed he appears to be, I can tell I have managed to get under his skin. Good. Yesterday is gone; today’s here to prove myself to him. I refuse to be a pushover. ‘Don’t push it,’ I tell myself. Grinning, I watch him retreat, clearly refusing to take the bait. Gently, I set the box back down on my desk and watched Chris settle behind his desk, his shoulders squared as if he had just made up his mind concerning something. Forcing himself to stay focused. But I certainly didn’t miss the way his eyes had lingered on me or the way his voice lowered when he spoke. It looks It looks like we are finally getting there. I will earn my respect from Chris Goodman, even if it’s the last thing I do. Feeling good with myself, I bite into my croissant again, enjoying the delicious goodness. I can’t help but wonder how much longer we could both pretend this is just an ordinary day at the office. Breakfast is good. But something in the air tells me that something is different about today. Could it be because Chris seems to be making extra deliberate efforts concentrating on his work? Not once had he looked my way since the lingering tension from the run-in with him. The office soon begins to buzz with the usual morning activity; Mike comes in moments later to see Chris. From my desk, I watch the men speak. Chris with his usual cold, cordial tone, and Mike with his professional tone. Chris will be having yet another meeting today, this time at his clientele’s company a few miles from here. I am soon caught up with my own activities for the day. It is nearly time for Chris’s meeting, and as his secretary, it is my job to make sure he was prepared. I open the file on my desktop, glancing through its details one more time. A quick, tight-knit discussion with investors about an upcoming expansion, Chris will be attending a series of meetings concerning the expansion this week. A busy man indeed. I grab the corresponding file from my desk drawer, smooth out the edges and edges, and stand to my feet and head for his desk. File in hand, I straighten my back, nerves tingling as I make my way towards Chris. The scent of his cologne hits me even before I reach him. Chris is hunched over his computer, typing something furiously, his brows furrowed in deep focus that makes him look more brooding than usual. The sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled up, exposing the strong muscles of his forearms. Feeling hot all over, I swallow hard, pushing back thoughts I shouldn’t be having. “Mr. Goodman,” I call his attention, my voice calm as I hold out the file. “Here are the details for the investor meeting at noon.” He didn’t look up at first, just kept typing away on his keyboard. I feel sorry for the buttons. The sound of his keyboard clacking under his fingers fills the silence. My hand wavers a bit, and I almost pull the file back when he suddenly stops and looks up, his dark eyes suddenly locking onto mine. His gaze is brief as they sweep over me, landing on the outstretched file in my hand. I can sense the familiar impatience lingering behind his stare. “Thanks,” he mutters simply, taking the file from me. But instead of looking through the file, he just holds it in his hands, his eyes locking on mine once again, as if assessing something other than the meeting details. “Is everything in order?” “Of course,” I tilt my chin slightly. “Everything you’ll be needing is in there, I triple-checked.” Chris lips press into a thin line; his expression gives nothing away, except there is something else in his eyes, something almost distracted? I feel his gaze drop to my lips—just for a fleeting second—before he quickly looks away, tugging briefly on his tie. He opened the file, flipping through as if nothing had happened. Heat spread slowly up my back. Did I just imagine that? Or had he really just...? I struggle to make sense of the situation, but before I could come to terms with it, Chris cleared his throat, his attention on the file. “Fine. I will review it.” Dismissed. But why do my feet feel so heavy all of a sudden? I stand there, rooted to the spot, the tension in the air making it hard for me to breathe. The way Chris keeps avoiding my gaze makes it worse. Thankfully, my legs become controllable, and I turn around, moving faster than I would have preferred. God. I need a drink! As I walk away, as undignified as possible, I feel the weight of Chris’s stare on my back. I stop at my desk and glance over my shoulder, catching him in the act. But this time around, his gaze remains on me, his dark eyes boring a hole into mine; there was no mistaking it. The desire in his gaze is undeniable. I freeze. My heart raced with passion just watching him watch me. The air between us thickens, and for the first time, I see clearly—Chris Goodman wasn't just a grumpy boss. He was holding back. I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. I must really look like a fool right now. As if sensing the shift in the air, Chris tears his gaze aside, standing abruptly, his back away from me. “You should work,” his voice is rough. “Isn’t that why you are here?” But the damage was already done. Whatever line we've been tiptoeing around—it had just been crossed.