Page 102 of Saved By the CEO

I laugh, but it comes out broken, and then I’m crying. Properly crying. Ugly and sudden and completely impossible to stop.

I got the job.

I got the job.

I let go of Annie. “I have to go,” I say, and grab my coat. “I have to tell him.”

TWENTY-SIX

My heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest any second. It’s beating so hard I can feel it everywhere.

My palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms heavy, and somewhere in the back of my brain, Eminem is yelling about spaghetti.

I draw in a shaky breath and knock on the door. Nothing happens at first. Then the lock turns, the door swings open, and there he is. Andrew. In a T-shirt and sweatpants.

Sweatpants.

The gray kind.

For one very long, very stupid second, all I can do is stare at him. Because my brain has spent years surviving crisp white shirts, black slacks, expensive coats, rolled-up sleeves, and the general corporate brutality of Andrew Bennett in work mode, only to be absolutely taken out by soft cotton and a drawstring.

“Carly?” he says, his confusion sharpening almost immediately into concern. “What are you doing here? Do you have a fever? Why didn’t you call me? I could have come to?—”

“It’s not a fever,” I say, interrupting him before his panic can fully load. “I’m okay. Great, even.”

His gaze moves over my face anyway, assessing me like he’s checking for symptoms.

I straighten a little. “You’re going to have to look for a new assistant.”

For one second, he just stares at me.

Then the furrow between his brows smooths out, and a smile starts spreading across his face. Slow at first, like he doesn’t quite trust it, and then wider. “Is that so?”

I nod, my own grin taking over completely. “It is.”

He leans against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. “Communications Coordinator Carly Michaels,” he says, like he’s testing the words. “It suits you.”

“It does,” I agree. “And it also means you’re not really my boss anymore.”

His nose scrunches slightly. “I’m still the CEO of the company you work for.”

“Yes, but.” I raise one finger in the air. “I don’t report directly to you. It’s a gray area, and the thing about gray areas is that they are just that. Gray. Like, yes, technically, you’re still my boss in the broad corporate food-chain sense, but you have no direct insight into my daily work now, and I won’t be managing your calendar, and Marissa will be the one approving my vacation days, so really, when you think about it, this is more of a philosophical question than an HR question, and?—”

“Carly,” he says, stepping back. “Come inside.”

I do.

He closes the door behind me, and I follow him into the living room, where the night he was having before I showed up is still sitting there in plain view.

A takeout box on the coffee table. The throw pillows on the couch pushed out of place. A movie paused on the TV, some man on horseback frozen mid-battle with a sword in his hand.

The sight squeezes my chest.

He was having a movie night.

I turn to him. “Sorry to interrupt your night.”

“You didn’t,” he says, taking a step toward me. “Why are you here, Carly?”