“Magnus. That you’re not actually a junior strategist. Do it before Vanessa comes back. Do it before this whole place catches fire.”
My throat goes dry. “Wait, how did you?—”
Greg taps his ear. “Yeah, this little thing? Picks up every conversation in a half-mile radius.”
My blood runs cold. “So you knew?” I don’t specifywhat,silently praying he’s not talking about Magnus and my extracurricular… performance reviews.
“Yes,” he says, deadpan. “The whole office knows about your littlejunior strategistcosplay.”
Relief floods me. Thank gods. Just the very fake job, not the very real orgasms.
How did I manage to stockpile this much chaos in such a short amount of time?
“Anyway.” He shoves a bundle of cables back into place. “Time to come clean.”
“I can’t,” I mutter, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “Not yet. I’m killing it on the pitch. Magnus is… pleased. We’re close to sealing the deal.”
Greg sighs, like I’ve just admitted I haven’t updated my operating system in years. “Jamie, second chances don’t exactly grow on trees around here. You might want to get ahead of this before it grows teeth.”
I nod, because he’s right. Of course he’s right. Greg’salways right. But the thought of Magnus looking at me differently… disappointed… it nearly crushes my ribs.
By the time lunch wraps, I’ve eaten like a being who should probably hibernate afterward, my mind swirling with images of Magnus, of us, of what comes next. After the meeting this morning, he said, “You’re doing amazing work, Torres. Keep it up.”
Amazing work. Not admin work. Not mailroom work. My chest swells for a second, just from him seeing me—not the lie, not the title, not the facade. And for a fleeting heartbeat, I allow myself to imagine: what if he doesn’t care about the lie? About being an admin brought up last minute from the mailroom. What if he sees me, really sees me?
I glance out the window at Crownpoint. I moved here because I wanted new opportunities to grow and thrive. And now, I’ve somehow found myself growing and thriving with a certain CEO in a way I never dreamed would happen.
Magnus. The way he looks at me. Not with suspicion, not with judgment—just… with that pull that has me imagining curling into his chest again, all the while knowing the truth could blow up spectacularly at any second.
But for now, I sit in Vanessa’s office. In her chair. Doing my best to cling to a tiny moment of peace. Because it’s getting harder to hide the truth. And honestly? I’m not sure I want to anymore.
13
BED, BATH, AND BEYOND
MAGNUS
It’s Wednesday night,and for the first time all week, I feel like I can breathe. The meetings have been endless, but productive, and somehow Jamie and I have managed—miraculously—to remain professional. At least in public. Behind the safety of my office door, and the lock of my private bathroom, we’ve both been… less than disciplined. I can’t seem to keep my hands off him. I don’t even pretend to try.
Now, though, I want something quieter. Simpler. So I invited him here again, to my space. My sanctuary.
Dinner is on the stove—creamy chicken noodle soup, slow-cooked with rosemary and garlic, the way my mother used to make on Sundays when she wanted the whole family at the table. I rarely cook like this. In myapartment, I usually survive on takeout or meals that require little thought. But for Jamie, I want more. The aroma seeps into every corner of my place, rich and heavy, more warmth than I usually allow in this glass-and-steel cage I call home. I practice swivel folds while we wait—it keeps my hands busy when my mind won’t rest. The soft paper soothes my fingers until Jamie catches me with that sweet, amused smile of his.
It unravels something in me.
“It’s… strange, you know.” I set the paper down and flex my hands. “I don’t trust easily. When you build your life on walls and control, letting anyone breach that isn’t easy.” I glance at him, and his eyes are on me. “Harder still when that someone is you.”
Jamie doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t make light of it. He just watches me, brow furrowed, lips parting like he’s about to speak. But he doesn’t.
“What is it?” I ask, hoping he’s going to match my vulnerability.
But he only exhales, shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s nothing,” he mutters, reaching for his wine instead.
I don’t press. Not yet.
Later, after dinner, I see the tension hasn’t left him. He smiles, he laughs at my dry comments, but there’s something brittle underneath. Maybe all the stress of the big pitch is getting to him. Poor guy. He’s wound tight, like he’s afraid of breaking.
“I have an idea.” I reach for his hand. “You need to relax. How about I run you a bath?”
