That thought twists in my chest, but I drown it out by plating the pasta like a five-star chef and dropping a hunk of bread beside it. “Voilà. Sin on a plate.”
Dani finally glances up from her screen and whistles. “If your boss doesn’t notice you, at least this meal would get you worshipped in any other household.”
I roll my eyes and dig into my own plate, the rich sauce coating my tongue. “They don’t mean to ignore me. Dad just…sees Karl. Always has. I’ve accepted it, mostly. Mom tries, but it’s not the same. A girl needs her dad to look her in the eye once in a while.”
Dani’s quiet, which is rare. She studies me instead, and the attention makes me squirm. I stab another bite of pasta, my mind flashing back to Jonathan in that conference room.
The way he said my name. The weight in his eyes when they locked on mine.
I swallow hard. “And speaking of attention—I still can’t believe I went from brewing coffee to working side-by-side with the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.”
Dani groans, shoving her laptop shut. “Knew it. This is about your boss again. The pasta’s got nothing on him, huh?”
I grin around another bite, but inside, my chest is a furnace.
Gorgeous was too small a word for Jonathan Clark. And actually talking to him? That was a whole new ball game. I’m not sure I’m ready to play it, but God, do I want to.
Dani hums thoughtfully as she chews and waves the fork at me, snapping my attention back to the present. “Well, congrats to my best friend. You deserve it!” she begins. “I have the liberty of writing a few columns on the city’s largest companies, and I believe Clark’s is on my list.”
She props her feet on the coffee table, fork twirling pasta while she rattles off her week—office politics, some new column she’s pitching, the usual whirlwind.
I listen, nodding, sipping my wine between bites of creamy sauce that should be illegal. Friday nights are our ritual: too much food, too much wine, and reality TV that fries our brains in the best way.
By the time the plates are scraped clean, we’re curled into the couch, the latest disaster of a dating show flickering across the screen. But my mind keeps drifting.
The noise of contestants shouting fades into the background, and all I can see is Jonathan Clark at the head of the conferencetable, his gaze locked on me like he was memorizing the shape of my face.
My stomach flips again, wine and nerves tangling until I’m restless. I wish I could crawl into his head for just one second and see what he saw when he looked at me.
Dani has that talent, the way she reads people like open books. Me? I’m just stuck replaying one look over and over, wondering if it meant anything at all.
Most of the time, I miss the signs. Back in school, Dani was always the one nudging me under the desk, whispering,He likes you, idiot,while I blinked, convinced the boy was just being polite. Being timid isn’t just inconvenient. It’s a curse.
But with Jonathan, there was no mistaking it. The moment his eyes locked on mine, butterflies didn’t just flutter, theyrioted. It’s still tumbling in my stomach now, hours later, leaving me restless and jittery.
Monday can’t come fast enough. And yet the thought of sitting outside his office, his voice rolling through the doorway, his gaze catching mine across the desk makes me flush hot and cold all at once.
He’s commanding, untouchable… and then those eyes soften, and I wonder what it would feel like if that look was meant for me alone.
I take another sip of wine, my pulse hammering.
Can I keep this crush locked down where it belongs? Or will it break loose the second he says my name again?
4
ELIZABETH
I’m beginning my new role tomorrow, if I can just get through tonight.
Sunday dinner. The Morgan family circus.
The table is already set when I walk in, and my mother is elbow-deep in mashed potatoes like she’s sculpting Mount Rushmore. My dad is glued to the sports channel in the living room, pretending he doesn’t hear her calling for help. My grandmother sits at the head, smiling faintly, more interested in the butter dish than the rest of us.
I take a deep breath and announce it the second I step inside, because if I wait even five minutes Karl will steal the spotlight. “I got promoted. I’m going to be Jonathan Clark’s assistant starting tomorrow.”
“Congratulations, honey,” my mother says, distracted, giving the potatoes one last violent stir. My father appears in the doorway, nods once, already craning his neck back toward the TV. Grandma perks up only long enough to ask if there’s gravy.
Then Karl saunters in with his latest arm candy, a tall brunette whose skirt could double as a belt. “Everyone, this is Tiffany. She’s studying communications, and she’s a model part-time.”
