Of course she is.
Dad beams, clapping Karl on the shoulder like he just brought home a Nobel Prize. Mom flutters around Tiffany, asking if she likes green beans or corn better. Even Grandma raises an eyebrow, interested.
I shovel a forkful of casserole onto my plate, biting my tongue. Tiffany isn’t rude, exactly—just blissfully unaware she’s been parachuted into a competition I’ve never won. She giggles at Karl’s stories, which all conveniently end with him being the hero on a construction site.
The more they laugh, the more invisible I feel.
I sip my water, smile when spoken to, and remind myself that tomorrow is mine. Jonathan Clark said my name, looked me dead in the eye, and offered me the chance I’ve been killing myself for.
My family may not hear it now, but one day they’ll have to.
Dinner ends with Dad raising his glass to Karl, telling him he’s proud. My mother slips me a smile across the table, soft and tired, like she knows how hollow the night feels for me. It’s enough to keep me from breaking.
Back at my apartment, Dani is out, so I fall into bed alone. Sleep refuses to come. Every time I close my eyes, I see Jonathan at the head of that table, his gaze steady on me, the weight of his voice in my ears.
What if he changes his mind? What if I stumble on day one? What if I disappoint him? By the time the alarm rings, I feel like I haven’t slept at all.
Monday morning has come far too quickly. Snow crunches under my boots as I make my way to the office, my body heavy with nerves and too little rest. I hang my coat on the rack, pour myself coffee, and square my shoulders before heading toward his closed office door.
The place feels gutted, only a skeleton crew left, which makes every sound echo sharper than usual.
And of course, Sherry Wilson is there, watching me like a cat with fresh prey as I walk toward Jonathan’s door.
We’d barely exchanged more than polite hellos before, but today Sherry has her eyes locked on me like I just stole her parking spot.
Every step toward Jonathan’s office feels like walking under a heat lamp. I keep my chin high, pretending not to notice the daggers, but the back of my neck prickles all the same. I’ve never given her a reason to dislike me—unless existing counts.
Jonathan’s voice filters through the heavy wooden door, low and clipped, clearly mid-call. My nerves tangle tighter. I pause, reading the neat black lettering on the gold plaque screwed into the door:Jonathan Clark, CEO/President.
The words seem to weigh more than they should. I breathe out, rap my knuckles against the wood, and tell myself that being early is better than being late.
“Come in!” His voice booms, and it’s edged with a roughness that makes my heart skip a beat.
I twist the knob, step inside, and the world shifts. He’s behind his desk, phone sliding back into its cradle, eyes on me as if I’m the next fire to put out.
The sight of him knocks me sideways—salt-and-pepper hair just slightly unruly, blue eyes sharp but shadowed by dark circles. He looks like he wrestled the weekend and lost.
“Good morning, sir,” I manage, my voice soft. My nerves trip over themselves as I search his face for a hint of the man who smiled at me Friday. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
He waves it off, leaning back in his chair. “Not at all. Just another company pulling the rug out from under me. The holiday season is a gift that keeps on giving.” His voice drips with fatigue, and I can almost see the weight pressing down on his broad shoulders.
I set the extra coffee cup I’d carried in onto his desk, nudging it closer. “Seems like you need this way more than I do, sir.”
His brow arches, interest sparking even through the exhaustion. For the first time this morning, his eyes really focus on me.
“Please, call me Jon,” he says, lifting the cup and taking a long swallow. His shoulders loosen, the hard lines of his face easing as he exhales.
When his eyes meet mine again, there’s a flicker of warmth I wasn’t ready for. “Thank you. I haven’t slept much the last few days.”
And because my mouth has zero filter under pressure, I blurt, “Oh, same. Me and insomnia are basically dating at this point.”
The second the words leave me, my brain screamswhy would you say that to your boss,but it’s too late. My cheeks heat, and I want to kick myself under the table.
To my surprise, the corner of his mouth lifts, almost a laugh, and the tension in the room shifts. He gestures toward the chair opposite his desk. “Then you’ll know how valuable this coffee is.”
I slide into the seat, trying to look composed while butterflies riot in my stomach. He closes the folder in front of him and sets it aside, giving me his full attention. It’s unnerving and magnetic all at once.
This man—this maddening, silver-haired bachelor—is supposed to be stone-faced, untouchable. Yet here he is, sipping coffee like it’s the first real pleasure he’s had all week, eyes locked on me as if I’m next.
