Page 99 of Saved By the CEO

I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.

The elevator doors open. I step out, smooth my skirt, and walk back to my desk with my notebook pressed against my chest.

Andrew’s office door is closed.

Good.

I don’t want him to ask how it went. I don’t want to talk about it. I want to mope at my desk and feel sorry for myself in peace.

I sit down, open my email, and stare at nothing. For a few minutes, I don’t move.

Then I pull up his calendar and start working, because that’s what I know how to do.

That’s what I’m good at.

TWENTY-FIVE

The view from the executive floor is always breathtaking, but after sunset it becomes almost unfair.

The city spreads out beneath the windows in sharp little pieces of light, yellow and red and blue and green against the dark buildings. Cars move like glowing beads along the streets below. Office windows blink on and off in the distance. Everything looks quieter from up here. Smaller.

I think we’re the only ones left on the floor now. Most people have already gone home for the day. But not me, and not Andrew.

He’s been in a conference call with someone overseas for most of the late afternoon, and I’ve been buried in the kind of work that somehow multiplies when you look away from it. Meeting requests, travel updates, revised documents.

Every few minutes, my eyes flick to my inbox.

Nothing from Marissa.

I could go home, technically. My hours are over. But unless I have a reason to, I tend not to leave before Andrew does. Not because he makes me stay. He doesn’t. I just know how his days go. If he asks for something at seven thirty, it usually needs to be done by seven thirty-one.

So I wait for him to finish his call while I contemplate whether I should order dinner to the office or pick something up on my way home. I want to get something really greasy and terrible to make me forget the awful interview. Maybe a cheeseburger with bacon. And onion rings. And a huge side of fries. And a crispy Coke.

I smile as my mouth starts to water.

Is this… arousal?

The door to Andrew’s office opens and he steps out. He’s taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, exposing those lovely forearms.

No,thisis arousal.

“Do you have a copy of the plans for the Rivera project?”

“Yes.” I reach for the folder on my desk and hand it to him.

Our hands touch as he takes it. Just the brush of his fingers against mine, but his eyes flick to my face for one brief second, and it feels like there’s a current between us. Something electric and alive.

I search for something to say. Something that will prolong this moment. Something that will stop him from taking the plans and returning to his office.

I want him to stay here, leaning against my desk. I want to talk to him the way we did for that brief stretch of time when we allowed ourselves to relax around each other. I want to laugh when he spills on his shirt. I want to joke with him. I want to ask him for advice. I want to tell him that I admire him, and that maybe I always have, even if it’s been buried under mountains of stress and impossible expectations.

I want to tell him about the interview and have him say it’s okay.

I want him to say he loves me anyway.

Oh my god.

No.