New plan. Deliver coffee. Make a good impression. Prove you belong here. Simple.
The doors open onto the executive floor with a soft whoosh. The decor up here, glass walls and sleek furniture that probably cost more than my entire apartment, makes the lobby feel casual.
I straighten my shoulders and step out of the elevator, walking toward the glass-walled office where I’ll be working. Through the glass, I can see someone sitting behind the imposing desk—head bent over paperwork.
My brain registers the familiarity of the silhouette a split second before he looks up, but by then, it’s too late. Our eyes meet across the office space, and the world stops spinning on its axis.
The hot stranger from the wedding is not, as it turns out, a random guest I’ll never see again.
Heis Pierce Dellcourt, Chief Financial Officer of Van Stern Enterprises.
My new boss.
The man I just covered in coffee in the lobby. The man who…
Blood drains from my face before rushing back with such force I’m surprised I don’t burst into flames on the spot.
Pierce’s expression shifts from neutral to shock to something that might be horror, though it’s hard to tell through the fog of my own panic. I remain frozen in the doorway, arm still extended with the coffee cup.
The silence stretches between us, thick enough to slice and serve at corporate functions. My brain, apparently deciding that this situation isn’t quite mortifying enough, keeps throwing out helpful memories like the way his breath caught when I sank to my knees, how his fingers gripped my hair, the soft sound he made when…
Stop. Stop. Stop.
I should say something. Anything. Preferably something professional and appropriate that will help us move past this moment with dignity.
What comes out instead is, “So…I guess this means the bathroom thing is definitely against HR policy?”
I want to grab the words and stuff them back into my mouth, but it’s too late.
“Mr. Charles.” His voice is exactly as I remember it. “Please take a seat…” He looks around like he’s summoning someone to help him with the awkwardness.
“I can explain,” I interrupt, though I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to say. “The coffee and the wedding, and the…bathroom…thing…” Each word digs the hole deeper, but I can’t seem to stop talking. “It’s actually kind of funny if you think about it! Not funny ha-ha, more funny oh-god-why, but still…”
Pierce raises one perfectly manicured eyebrow, and I lose what remains of my verbal filter.
“I didn’t know you were you!” The words tumble out in a panic. “I mean, obviously, you are you, but not this you. Boss you. I thought you were just a gorgeous stranger in a suit.Not that you’re not still gorgeous—I mean, professionally! Professionally gorgeous. I mean… Oh god.”
I’m pretty sure I’m having an out-of-body experience, watching my self-destruction in real time. The rational part of my brain is screaming for me to stop talking, but my mouth apparently didn’t get the memo.
“I brought you coffee,” I finish weakly, gesturing with the cup I’m still somehow holding. “Fiona told me what you like…in a professional way, of course. Because I’m professional. And definitely not thinking about the wedding. Or bathrooms. Or anything that happened in bathrooms. At weddings. With you.”
Fuck.
Pierce’s other eyebrow joins the first as I place the cup on his desk and slide it toward him. The silence that follows feels like it lasts several geological ages. Finally, he speaks, each word measured.
Pierce’s expression softens slightly, though his professional mask remains firmly in place. “Your desk is outside my office,” he says, his tone measured but not unkind. “I should also inform you that Fiona had to bring her retirement forward. So she won’t be available to complete your training.”
“Oh,” I manage, my voice suddenly small. “Is everything okay with her daughter and the triplets?”
“She went into early labor.”
I swallow hard, needing to convey some level of competence to my new boss. “Fiona’s been sending me guides and documents to study. She was very thorough. I should be okay on my own.”
Pierce nods once, his expression unreadable. “I’m sure you’ll manage,” he says, and I can’t tell if that’s confidence or dismissal in his tone.
I stand on shaky legs. “Right. Well. I’ll just…go to my desk then. Outside your office. Where it is.”
I back out of the office, managing not to trip, though only through what I assume is divine intervention.
