The voice came from behind the desk, and I looked up. The man standing there made my brain short-circuit like someone had dumped eggnog into my motherboard.
He was unfairly hot. Devastatingly hot. The kind of hot that made you forget words and basic motor functions. Dark hair that looked like he’d been running his hands through it, sharp jawline, eyes so blue they should’ve come with a warning label. He wore a charcoal sweater that fit him in ways that were probably illegal in twelve states, and his sleeves were pushed up to reveal forearms that had no business looking that good on a Tuesday morning.
This couldnotbe happening.
“I’m so sorry,” I said again, clutching a crystal award that proclaimed him “Entrepreneur of the Year.” My voice was too high, too breathless. “I’ll put them all back exactly how they were, I promise. I was just looking for my desk, and I thought?—”
“You thought you’d reorganize my awards?”
There was something in his tone I couldn’t quite read. Irritation? Amusement?
“No. God, no. I was looking for Shelby. She’s my boss. I’m new. Well, notnewnew—I’ve worked here for six months, but remotely, and then the email came yesterday, and I didn’t know where to go, and?—”
“You’re rambling.”
“I know.” I took a breath, trying to center myself while kneeling on his floor, surrounded by the physical manifestation of his success that I’d just demolished. This was fine. This was totally fine. “I’m Gabriella. Gabriella Travers. I’m a copywriter.”
I held up the award I was still clutching like it was a peace offering. He moved around the desk, and I realized he was tall. Really tall.
He crouched down next to me, and suddenly we were eye level, and this was somehow worse because up close he was even more attractive, and I could smell his cologne—something woodsy and expensive that made my thoughts scatter like the glitter currently decorating the floor beneath me.
“Let me help.” He took the award from my hands, his fingers brushing mine for a brief second that sent an entirely inappropriate zing up my arm.
“You don’t have to?—”
“I know where they go.”
Right. Because they were his awards. That I’d destroyed. The first time I met him.
We worked in silence for a moment, him methodically placing each award back on the credenza while I handed them to him like the world’s most incompetent assistant.
“I really am sorry,” I said, because apparently I was stuck in an apology loop. “I didn’t see them there, and my bag is too full because I didn’t know what I’d need today, and?—”
“Gabriella Travers.” He said my name slowly, like he was testing it out. “The copywriter.”
“The only copywriter, apparently.” I tried for a smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace. “So if you’ve hated any of the campaign copy in the last six months, that was me. Sorry in advance.”
Something flickered across his face as he placed the last award back on the credenza—a Webby for “Best Branded Content Series.” He stood, and I scrambled to my feet, clutching my traitorous bag.
“I haven’t hated it,” he said, and there was something odd in his tone. “Your Christmas campaign for the Gingerbread and Gossip influencer was good. Strong hook, authentic voice.”
I blinked. “You…know my work?”
“I know all the work that goes out under this company’s name.”
Right. Of course. Because this was probably some senior VP or director who reviewed everything. Which meant I’d just made the worst possible first impression on someone important.
“Well, thank you,” I managed. “That campaign was fun to write.”
He studied me for a moment, and I became acutely aware of the tinsel in my hair and the way my Christmas sweater had ridden up during my floor gymnastics. There was also the fact that I was probably still shedding glitter with every breath.
“Shelby’s office is three doors down on the right,” he said finally. “She’ll get you set up.”
“Thank you.” I backed toward the door, this time giving the credenza a wide berth like it might attack me. “Again, I’m so sorry about the—” I gestured vaguely at the awards. “Everything.”
“Gabriella.”
I paused in the doorway, my heart doing something complicated in my chest.
