Chapter Three
ETHAN
By the timeI get to the office, I already know today is going to test me. Just like every day at this job does. A buddy from graduate school just headhunted me to come and work at his company. It’s a promotion and more pay.
I should take the job.
But that would mean I’d no longer seeherevery day.
And as much torture as every weekday is, not having her in my life would be worse.
It’s December, which means the air is colder, the days shorter, and the office collectively pretending we’re not all one passive-aggressive email away from losing our minds.
Tinsel droops from cubicle walls. Someone hung a felt stocking on the printer like it’s a threat.
And then there’s Secret Santa.
The spreadsheet lives in my inbox like a loaded weapon.
I shouldn’t have agreed to it. I know that. Office morale be damned. Any system that pairs anonymous gift-giving with suppressed emotions is fundamentally dangerous. But HR pitched it as “festive,” and I didn’t have a good reason to sayno that wouldn’t involve admitting I have feelings for one of my employees.
So now here we are.
I hang my coat, boot up my computer, and deliberately do not look toward Liz Harper’s desk.
Because if I do, I’ll stare.
And if I stare, I’ll give something away.
Liz has been my weakness for longer than I care to admit.
Smart. Capable.
Endearingly anxious in a way that makes me want to step in and smooth the world out for her. For a while, I thought maybe she had a crush on me because of that adorable awkwardness. But then I realized she’s awkward with everyone, and my ego, and my dick, tried to make it something special. But either way, the difference is she’s allowed to have a crush on someone at the office. As the manager, I’m not.
I’ve made peace with that. Mostly.
Then I hear a softthudfollowed by an apologetic gasp.
I look up.
Through my glass office walls, what a fucked-up idea that is, Liz wrestles with the copy machine like it betrayed her.
Of course she is.
Her cardigan has slipped off one shoulder. Her gorgeous auburn hair is pinned up in a way that’s trying very hard to be professional and failing beautifully as several strands fall from the clasp thing she’s using to tame them. She mutters at the machine under her breath, shifts her weight, and knocks a stack of papers to the floor.
I start toward her automatically.
She turns.
Our eyes meet.
And something in her expression goes completely haywire. In her green eyes, I see more panic than usual.
Her face goes red, not its usual soft pink, but a deep, flustered flush that spreads all the way down her neck. She freezes like she’s been caught doing something illegal. “Hi,” she squeaks.
“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice steady as I crouch to help her gather the papers.
