He leans back in his chair, one hand draped lazily on the armrest, the other holding his phone. He looks perfectly composed, but there’s an edge to his words today, a sharpness I can’t quite define. Unless this is how he always is, a little daggerish.
I focus on his words, scribbling them down in shorthand, but awareness of him hums beneath every breath. His voice is magnetic, cultured, deep. With the name Moretti, I expected he’d have the pronounced accent his late father was known for, but he doesn’t. His voice is smoother, educated, rich. And God, it’s unfair how hot it sounds.
“Read it back to me,” he says when I’m done.
I do, and he nods once. “Very good. Send it.”
I close the notebook and start to rise, but his gaze catches mine, holding me in place.
“You’re adjusting.” It’s not a question — more of a statement — and I pause, unsure if I should answer.
“I’m trying,” I admit, because lying to him feels pointless. “There’s a lot to learn and reacquaint myself with. I haven’t worked for a while, so I’m a little out of practice.”
One corner of his mouth tilts, not quite a smile. “You’ll get there.”
I leave his office with my heart pounding, my thoughts tangled. What is it about him that leaves me off-balance? Like I can’t catch my breath. Like I could close my eyes and lose myself in the sound of his voice for hours.
The idea of his lips — his wickedly sinful mouth — brushing my ear as he whispers something in that low, commanding tone hits me hard, and heat pools low in my belly.
I grip the edge of my desk until my knuckles ache. What the fuck is wrong with me? I cannot lust after my boss. How cliché is that?
By the end of the day, I’ve answered twenty-seven emails, and triple-checked the Capstone figures before sliding the final summary onto his desk. When I gather my bag, ready to leave, I glance into his office one last time.
He’s still there, sleeves rolled up, pale-gray eyes fixed on his screen, jaw tense. The city skyline glows behind him, painting the glass in streaks of gold and shadow.
I don’t know why I pause. Maybe because, for a moment, he looks…alone.
I shake the thought away quickly. This isn’t my business.
Mr. Moretti isn’t mine to debate and analize.
And yet, as I step into the elevator and the doors slide shut, I know I’ll keep doing the same tomorrow.
Even if I shouldn’t.
FOUR
LUCIEN
The office hums around me.Ringing phones, murmured conversations, the steady rhythm of keyboards, but my attention keeps drifting to the woman sitting just outside my door. My damn PA, who shouldn’t be getting my attention at all. Not unless it’s work related.
She has been here a week, and already she’s in my head more than she should be.
Her posture is perfect, shoulders straight, head bent over her laptop, dark hair sliding forward as she writes. Quiet. Efficient. Focused. Exactly what I want in an assistant.
And distracting as hell.
I tell myself it will pass. It always does. I don’t sleep with my staff. I don’t mix business with pleasure. Especially not with my accountant’s cousin. But none of that stops me from noticing her or thinking how her hair would feel fisted in my hands while I guided her…
I shake the thought aside and return to reviewing a contract when raised voices spill from the reception area.
“Mr. Moretti said my payment would be processed last week,” a man snaps. “You tell him if he thinks he can screw me over, he’s got another thing coming.”
I glance up, already bracing myself to intervene, when Briar steps into the line of fire. Calm. Steady. Not a trace of panic on her face.
“I understand you’re frustrated,” she says evenly, standing between the man and my office door. “But threatening our staff and Mr. Moretti’s receptionist won’t make the payment process any faster. If you’d like, I can confirm with accounts where things stand and get back to you this afternoon.”
The man glares at her, his jaw flexing. He is taller than her, broader too, and most people would back off under the weight of that stare. Briar doesn’t even blink.
