I should step back and return to my desk. Let her work in peace. Instead, I stay where I am for another beat, watching her fingers work on the keyboard. No wasted movement. Pure competence.
It takes several seconds, but I force myself to move away, back to my desk, back to my own work. But I’m hyperaware of every sound she makes—the click of her mouse, the tap of her keys, and the soft sigh she releases when she solves a particularly tricky problem.
This is becoming a problem.
At two o’clock, my phone goes off, alerting me to a meeting with the acquisition team. I’d forgotten about it completely, which is unlike me. I never forget meetings.
“I have to go,” I tell her. “Will you be all right on your own?”
She doesn’t look up from her screen. “I’ve been on my own for twenty-five years. I think I can manage an hour.”
“Two hours. Possibly three.”
“Even better. Less hovering.”
I grab my jacket from the back of my chair and head for the door. At the threshold, I pause.
“If you need anything—”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“The vendor codes for—”
“Already memorized them.”
Of course she did.
“Right. I’ll be back.”
The meeting drags on for exactly two hours and forty-seven minutes. Budget projections, integration timelines, and personnel assessments. I contribute where necessary and count the minutes until I can leave. My mind keeps drifting back to the office. To her. To the way she chews on that pen cap when she’s concentrating.
This is ridiculous. I’m a grown man who runs a multimillion-dollar company. I’ve negotiated deals with oligarchs and criminals and politicians who would sell their ownmothers for power. A woman with freckles and a stubborn streak should not be this distracting.
And yet.
When the meeting finally ends, I head straight back to the office. I’m walking faster than normal, telling myself it’s because I have work to do. Nothing to do with her.
The office is empty when I arrive.
Her desk is neat, computer still on with the screen locked, notes stacked in a tidy pile. But her chair is pushed back, and her jacket is missing from its hook.
I check my phone. No messages.
I’m about to text her when I hear it. Laughter, coming from down the hall. Bright and light and completely unfamiliar.
I follow the sound to the break room. Through the glass door, I see Kirsten standing by the coffee machine. A man I recognize from the analytics department is leaning against the counter beside her, saying something that makes her smile.
Not just smile.
Laugh.
She throws her head back, and her entire body shakes with it. The sound is unguarded and joyful, and nothing like the careful responses she gives me.
Something ugly curls in my gut. Hot and irrational and completely unwelcome.
The man—Peterson, I think his last name is—touches her arm as he delivers another punchline. She laughs again, holding her stomach. Looking at the two of them, it’s like they’ve known each other for years. And maybe they have. I’m not sure how long that guy has worked here.
What I do know is she’s never laughed like that with me. Not once. I’ve made her smirk and roll her eyes. I’ve earned that unladylike snort I’m starting to find endearing. But this full-bodied, joyful laughter? Never.
