That’s the problem.
It would be so much easier to dislike him if I didn’t find him so damn fuckable.
“Sir?” he echoes, one brow lifting.
I shrug and follow him into his office.
His jacket is already gone, sleeves rolled the way he always does when he’s done pretending to be untouchable. Tattooed forearms exposed. Ink disappearing beneath crisp white fabric.
Get it together, Sullivan.
He circles behind his desk and sits. The movement is casual. Controlled. Like everything else about him.
“What do you want this time, Ms. Sullivan?” he asks.
“I’m sensing annoyance in your tone,” I reply. “Sir.”
“There’s only one place I want you to call me that,” he says with a smirk, “and if I tell you where, you’ll sue me for sexual harassment .”
I give him a flat look. “I’m sure I can guess.”
I set the folder on his desk. “I’m here about Mrs. Fielding’s retirement.”
“Who?”
I exhale slowly. “Mrs. Fielding. The woman who trained half this company. The one who corrected my first HR memo with a red pen and a smile.”
“Shit.”
“Mmhmm.”
I open the folder, hand him a pen, and tap the first page. “Sign here.”
He does.
“And here.”
Another signature.
“And here.”
He flips the page and signs again, faster this time.
“That’s it?” he asks.
“That’s it. Less than a minute of your time you couldn’t make for the woman who’s been here since the day you opened.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Yes,” I say evenly. “So your assistant said.”
He leans back in his chair, studying me. “Is there something you’d like to say to me?”
So many things.
About respect. About responsibility. About how people aren’t disposable just because success came easily to him.
But I like my job.
