His glasses do nothing to hide the intensity of his gaze.I can only hold it for a few seconds, until my heart is beating too fast and everything gets a little too warm.It doesn’t help that he always smells amazing.Like coming home to your favorite meal.
Head-turning.Rewarding.Delicious.
“Can I help?”
I can feel my face contorting in confusion.“With what?”
“The move,” he says as though it were obvious.
Oh.“Um …”
Do I want that?Yes, obviously.But do I?
“Do you have a quota of good deeds you need to complete each day?”
“Only where you’re involved.”
There’s no escaping my blush and no chance it isn’t a hundred percent obvious to Sterling right now.
I’ve already turned him down once.Can I do it again?
* * *
Make Your Choice:
let Sterling help you move(go to 11)
decline his offer(go to 14)
go back(go to 3)
My lungs burn as I speed-walk to the office.I really need to start using the gym in my building.I’ve stopped promising myself that I’ll go; it halves the shame, but not the guilt, although running myself in circles to meet Monica’s demands should really count as cardio.
By the time I finally arrive, I’m sweating.The back of my neck, between my thighs, under my breasts.
Any calm I once had lies shredded at my feet, ripped apart by the angry badger of panic I fought the whole way here.
Monica is in her office, her razor-sharp brow lowered in disappointment when she spots me through the glass.Her lips are set in a tight, thin line, and I can imagine the sound she’s making.
Everyone else is busy at work, and I pick up speed as I cross the floor, almost barreling into Sterling on the way.
“Careful,” he says, his voice rough and low.It reminds me of morning sex.
Power radiates off Sterling.Black hair, black suits, strong jaw.A gaze that could pierce through steel.He looks at me as if he already knows what I’m thinking but he’s going to make me say it anyway and I’ll enjoy every second of it.
Sure, he’s packed with enough muscle to put you anywhere he wants you, but something tells me he’d rather use his words.
As always, I smile and say, “Good morning,” in hopes that today will be the day he says something, anything, back.
A muscle in his jaw twitches, but he only nods, his close-set eyes shifting between blue and green with the ease of water before he walks away.
I should stop trying.He’s never said it back.In fact, since I started here, we’ve swapped maybe a handful of words.I’m confident he hates me.Sterling seems to hate everyone.
Slipping my bag under my desk, I wince at the time.No wonder Monica is pissed.
Nearby, Tim barks at IT over the phone.They’re going to hate coming up here if he’s locked out of his computer again.His desk is in danger of collapsing under the weight of every note he’s ever written in thirty-odd years of journalism.That is, if he still has a desk under all that mess.It’s difficult to tell.
The Observeris loud and brash and waits for no one.If you work here, you chose to get thrown into the fire with no protection.Those who can’t keep up weed themselves out.It’s cruel and stressful, and sometimes, at night, when silence descends and it’s only Sterling and me left under the unforgiving fluorescents, I plot how I’ll turn it around someday.
