“Good morning,” she says brightly, with the confidence of someone who doesn’t know she just lit up my whole damn office. “Figured you could use the caffeine since we stayed late working yesterday.”
Her voice is cheerful, but my eyes snag on her mouth—those lips I’ve already tasted—and for a second I forget how to respond. I clear my throat. “Thank you. You read my mind. I’ll send a few files over in a moment.”
She nods and slips back out the door to her desk.
I drop into my chair harder than I mean to and bring the mug to my lips. The coffee is scalding, black, perfect. I nearly drain it in one pull, like I need it to burn away the memory of her tongue against mine.
It doesn’t work.
Through the open door, I can see her. Head bent over the keyboard, fingers flying, shoulders straight with that quiet determination she carries. She looks happy, content, completely unaware that my eyes keep dragging back to her like a compass needle.
The gesture should have been nothing. Coffee. Sweet. Professional. But instead it’s dangerous. Because while I don’t regret kissing her, I regret how easily I lost control. How much I want to do it again.
An in-office affair is poison. I’ve seen it before—messy, loud, destructive. She’s too young, too bright, too full of ambition to be burned down by me. And yet… I can still taste her when I swallow.
I force myself to set the cup down and focus, fingers flying over the keyboard as I push a set of mock contracts her way. Work. Discipline. Control. It’s what keeps me at the top.
When I glance back up, she’s already opened the file. She catches me watching, flashes me a quick grin, and shoots me a thumbs-up. My chest tightens, the smallest, simplest gesture cutting through me like a blade. Christ, this is going to be a problem.
She doesn’t even know I’m watching her. That’s the part that kills me.
Head bent over the screen, brow furrowed, lips pursed in concentration. Every so often, she drags a strand of hair behind her ear without looking up, fingers never missing a beat on the keyboard.
Most women I’ve had in that chair knew exactly what they were doing—crossing their legs high, batting lashes, waiting for me to notice. Pretty packages, empty inside.
Lizzy? She’s not performing. She’s just… working. Driven, focused, like she actually gives a damn about getting it right.
And that is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
I should shut my door. God knows I’ve always kept it shut, a fortress against every distraction in this office. Instead, the door’s wide open, and I haven’t touched the stack of contracts on my desk because I’d rather watch her work.
The knock comes sharp against the frame, pulling my eyes away.
Sherry Wilson steps inside, hips rolling, folder clutched to her chest. She sets it on my desk, bending just enough to flash cleavage, and lets her fingers skim over mine in a deliberate brush. “You seem tense, sir. Need anything? Coffee? Maybe… a shoulder rub?”
Her lids are half-lowered, her smile perfectly plastered on. She’s been circling me for years like a cat that doesn’t realize I’ll never open the door. If it weren’t for her skill at her job, I’d have let her go a long time ago. I draw my hand back, my voice flat. “No. That’ll be all, Sherry.”
But my eyes have already shifted past her, to the desk outside. To Lizzy. “Lizzy, come in.”
Sherry turns in time to cross paths with her, and the temperature in the doorway drops. Sherry’s scoff is sharp, her glare poisonous, but Lizzy breezes past with a roll of her eyes and a smile that stirs something low in my chest.
“You wanted to see me?” she asks, cheerful, unaware she’s sunlight against the frost.
“What was that?” I gesture toward the door.
She shrugs. “No clue. Ever since I started this role, she’s been shooting daggers at me. I just… blow it off.”
It makes sense. Sherry has always wanted me, but Lizzy… God, Lizzy doesn’t even try. She just exists, and it’s enough to unravel me.
I clear my throat, sliding the folder toward her. “New prospects for the new year. Read through, research them. You’ll want to be sharp for the meetings.”
“Of course.” She flips through, her fingers skimming page after page—until one makes her freeze. Her breath hitches, eyes widening before she schools her face into something neutral. Too neutral.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
She forces a laugh, light but strained. “No, nothing at all. Just a lot to take in. Could you email me the list?”
Before I can press, she’s gone—folder clutched tight, heels clicking back to her desk like she can outrun what she just saw.
