3
STRATEGICALLY LYING
JAMIE
I’ve seen him before,of course. Who hasn’t? He’s the freakin’ CEO. Always impeccably dressed like he stepped out of a magazine—sleek, commanding, devastatingly handsome.
Passing through the hallways on his way to some high-level meeting, head high, horns neatly polished, tie impossibly perfect even for an executive. Everyone stares. No one breathes. He’s the kind of presence that makes you notice everything about yourself—the way your shirt clings, the way your glasses might be slightly askew, the minor quiver in your hands as you try to deliver mail without being noticed.
And here I am, an admin brought up from themailroom, sitting behind Vanessa’s desk in her absence, pretending like I belong. Which, technically, I don’t.
I take a breath and remind myself:only until I prove myself. That’s the mantra. That’s part of why I lied when Magnus made an incorrect assumption about my role. I had no choice—I had to cover for Vanessa, had to make it sound official, had to keep the CEO from realizing a mailroom temp was sitting in her seat. But maybe—just maybe—I wanted him to see me in a different light too, to notice more than my nervous hands or the stack of notes I meticulously organized.
Junior Strategist. The moment the words left my mouth, regret slammed into me, sharp as a slap. And yet, the truth is impossible to ignore: Iamcapable. I just need others to see it. It’s not my fault Labyrinth has the silly two-year requirement for internal candidates. And the thought of Magnus looking at me, really looking… It made my stomach twist and my heart race in a way I knew I shouldn’t let anyone see.
The office is quiet. He left hours ago, and in his absence I’ve become the world’s most neurotic wannabe junior strategist. I’ve shuffled papers, lined up pens by height order, smoothed the desk so many times the wood practically squeaks. Checked my hair in the window’s reflection—twice, because apparently once wasn’t enough.
Lunch was Vanessa’s notes on the Community Outreach Initiative Campaign, devoured alongside the peanut butter and fluff sandwich I’d packed. Very professional, I know. Nothing says “trusted strategist” quite likesticky marshmallow on your fingers. But until someone tells me this sudden promotion comes with more than my usual pitiful hourly rate, I’ll keep brown-bagging like a pro.
At one minute to three, I know he’s coming. Not because I hear him—no hoofsteps yet—but because the air changes, like the building itself is holding its breath. Then comes the scent: woodsy cologne that smells like cedar and money, the kind of thing you can only buy if your credit card doesn’t whimper at the register. And finally, his presence. That magnetic, slightly terrifying aura that makes the fluorescent lights flicker like they’re trying to impress him too.
He’s standing there in the doorway looking like the most gorgeous specimen in a suit, and even though he’s right on time, I nearly jump out of my chair when he speaks.
“Jamie.” His voice is deep, measured, and, for reasons my brain refuses to analyze fully, it makes my stomach flip. “Are you ready for our meeting?”
I cough, stand, and wave vaguely toward Vanessa’s chair. “Right. Um. Of course. Take the bigger chair. Please.”
He nods, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips, and my head spins at the thought that I might be the reason for it.
I step aside to give him room, and as he slides into the chair, he misjudges the space. His tail brushes against my ass—a brief, unintentional contact—but enough to make my pulse spike. Heat crawls up my neck,and I freeze, my brain short-circuiting on anything professional.
He mutters something under his breath, too low to catch, and his enormous brown eyes drop to the floor as he runs a hand through the long sweep of hair between his horns, tail now twitching nervously behind him.
And somehow, somehow, that little movement—his tail brushing me, the faint rumble in his chest as he shifts—makes my knees wobble. I force my hands to stay at my sides, but my mind is a mess of “don’t stare, don’t faint, don’t let him know.” It’s ridiculous. I’m trying to be professional, show him my smarts—and yet here I am, melting because his tail briefly touched my butt. A tail. My brain files this under “Professional Boundaries” while my heart loudly objects.
He clears his throat and shifts in the chair, suddenly very aware of his body. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head—he’s panicked, and it’s… adorable. I don’t know what I expected from Magnus Trainor, but panicked isn’t it.
I step closer under the guise of adjusting some papers on the desk. “Uh… I thought you’d be more comfortable in the larger chair.”
“Right.” He sits back again, still tense. His hands lay on the armrests, fingers flexing slightly, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to hide it or if the motion is involuntary. He seems almost… self-conscious.
He spends time looking over what I’ve tried to cull together using Vanessa’s notes, nodding and making little positive noises that Ishouldn’t find sexy.
“Jamie,” he says, leaning forward just enough for me to notice the warmth radiating from him, “these ideas you’ve put together—impressive.” His voice is even, professional, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s trying not to betray something he doesn’t want me to see. “You’ve thought this through. The pitches, the media kit plan… solid work.”
I blink. “Th-thank you, sir.” My heart races to a sprint. “I… I just… want to make sure things run smoothly while Vanessa?—”
He interrupts me with a sharp, almost-too-sincere nod. “I see that. And I appreciate it. Truly.”
His eyes find mine, and there’s something, a moment, like maybe he knows he makes me nervous too. I’m not sure what to say. What to do. So I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind—“Cute tie”—and my entire face flushes.
The silence that follows is thick enough to butter toast. His brow arches, horns catching the overhead light like punctuation marks on my comment. My face is still on fire when I scramble to say more. “I mean—uh—your… tie. The pattern is very… symmetrical.”
Magnus blinks, and I consider throwing myself out the nearest window.
And that’s exactly when there’s a soft knock against the door.
“Yes? Come in,” Magnus says with a shake of his head.
