Chapter 1
April
If sighs were a form of violence, Anthony Voss would be guilty of corporate manslaughter by now.
The latest one drifts through the open door between our offices like it was specifically designed to float into my ears and punch me square across the jaw.
I don’t even need to look up to know he’s walking toward the doorway, backlit by the midday sun over Midtown Manhattan pouring through the window.
He’s probably staring at me with a look of judgment so intense it could curdle milk.
But Idolook up, because apparently, I’m an idiot with a propensity for torment.
Six-feet-whatever of cold, silver-haired disapproval in a charcoal suit stalks toward me.
He’s got that polished, almost surgical stillness about him, the kind that screams he’s either intensely pleased and relaxed or so annoyed he could rip my head off, the kind that only comes with being forty-eight and used to being in control.
His grey eyes sweep the room around me, his jaw working, before they land on me with the weight of a gavel, the corners crinkling. I try not to notice that he’s letting his stubble showtoday, and try even harder not to imagine what it would feel like against my fingertips.
Or between my thighs.
“Is this the final version?” he asks, holding up the press release I spent most of last night sharpening to perfection. I’d been up until three in the morning.
I blink at him. “Unless we’re waiting for divine intervention,” I say, swiveling slightly in my chair to face him, “then yes. That’s the final version.”
He steps inside and leans against the open door, holding the press release in his hand, showing it to me.
I try not to let my gaze wander to his hands —try.
One’s tucked into a pocket, so that makes things easier, but the one he’s drawing my attention to is broad and veined and dexterous-looking in a way that makes me want to forget why the HR policies here at Voss & Bartley exist.
Anthony flicks his eyes over the page, his lip curling in that way I know means he’s annoyed. The silence hangs too long before he finally speaks. “It’sfine.”
Oh no.
I fucking hate that word.
“Fine?” I echo, raising a brow at him as I lean forward onto my desk, resting my chin on my upturned palm. “Like, fine as in,‘Send it to the press, April, you brilliant wordsmith, let’s get lunch to celebrate’? Or fine as in,‘Not worth firing you over, but only just’?”
His expression doesn’t change. “Fine, as in, it’s not up to your usual standard,” he says, lowering the paper and staring me down. “The tone lacks authority. The third paragraph reads like…fluff.”
I grin tightly at him, willing my eye not to twitch. “Right. Authority. Can do.”
His jaw tightens. “You don’t think it warrants edits?”
“I just didn’t realize you were writing your own speeches now. Would you like full creative control?” I ask, keeping my tone light, but shooting him a glare.
He scoffs. A full-on scoff.
To most, it would mean nothing—a slightly annoyed boss, the equivalent of an eye roll. But to me, I know better. That’s almost a meltdown for him, a signal I’m pushing too hard.
“You can do better,” he clips.
“I know I can. And usually, I do. But believe it or not, I’m human, and mistakes happen when you’re writing at three in the morning.” I sit back in my chair, twirling my pen around my fingers, and pull up the document on my computer with my free hand.
He gives me a flat, assessing stare I’ve come to loathe. “That’s not an excuse.”
“Of course not,” I mutter. “Heaven forbid anyone in this office admit to being tired or, God forbid,mortal.”
