Page 13 of Falling For My Ex's Older Brother

My morning runs the way it always runs: 6:15, the alarm I don't need because I'm already awake. Coffee, black, while I review the overnight correspondence that accumulated between the time I went to sleep and the time the East Coast opened for business. By seven I've drafted three responses, flagged two items for follow-up, and identified a discrepancy in the Vertex pre-brief that needs to be corrected before Thursday's presentation. By 7:45 I'm in the car.

The floor is already operational when I arrive — this is by design. I don't employ people who need to be eased into their mornings. The day begins at full capacity or it doesn't begin at all, and everyone who has lasted here understands that without being told twice.

Keith is at my office door with the particular expression he wears when there are three things he needs to communicate and he's already prioritizedthem. He's been a director at Drake Industries for six years — sharp, direct, someone whose read on a situation I trust enough to factor into my own. We move inside and he gives me the morning briefing with the efficiency of a man who knows I don't need context I didn't ask for.

"Mercer's load projections came in an hour ago — they're on your desk," he says.

"Vertex confirmed the revised brief. And Hargrove's team is requesting more time on the licensing language before the call."

"Tell them today is the last accommodation," I say.

"After that they can find their time after we've already signed with someone else."

Keith nods. He'll handle it — that's how we operate. I don't manage Keith and Keith doesn't manage me. We move in parallel and the work gets done.

My desk phone rings before he's turned to leave. I hold up a hand and pick it up.

"This is Logan Drake."

"Good morning, Mr. Drake." A woman's voice — one of Patricia's assistants, from the cadence of it.

"Just calling to confirm that Patricia will be bringing your new EA up at 9:00 this morning."

I'd noted it on my calendar the night before —Sutton Kane, start date confirmed— and given it exactly the consideration it warranted.

"Fine. Have Patricia run her through building access and systems first. Thank you."

I set the phone down andturn back to Keith.

"Let me know what Hargrove comes back with. We'll do their call later."

Keith nods and leaves. I open Mercer's load projections and get to work.

I'm aware of the activity near the corridor entrance at 8:55 without looking up from my screen.

Patricia's voice, low and professional. The sound of the door to the adjacent desk space — the large corner station positioned just outside my office with the floor-to-ceiling window running alongside it. The specific quality of a new person learning the geography of a space, the pauses and small sounds of someone taking inventory of their surroundings.

I don't look up. There's no reason to.

Then Patricia appears in my doorway.

"Mr. Drake — she's all set on systems and building access. Ready when you are."

"Give me two minutes."

I finish the paragraph I'm reading, close the projection report, and stand.

She's at her desk with her back partially to me when I step into the corridor, reviewing something on the monitor that Patricia must have pulled up during the walkthrough. Blonde hair — not the flat, processed kind but something richer, catching the light from the window beside her in a way that registers before I've decided to register it. Long legs crossed at the ankle beneath the desk, the hem of her skirt sitting just above the knee. When she hears my footstep and turns, I have approximately two seconds before she's facing me fully.

I use them to identify the reaction, label it, and set it aside.

She stands. 5’7” perhaps — the heels add something, but not much. Blue eyes, the kind of clear that reads as almost startling against the blonde, and a face that manages to be both composed and immediately arresting in a way I catalog with the same detached efficiency I'd apply to anything else that requires a fast read. The blouse she's wearing fits precisely enough that when she turns to face me fully I'm aware, briefly and without welcome, of the curve of her figure beneath it.

I extend my hand.

"Logan Drake."

"Sutton Kane." Her handshake is firm. Direct. She meets my eyes without hesitation, which tells me something.