I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open. I’m pretty sure I’ve dozed off on five separate occasions, and it’s not even noon. I don’t even answer my dad’s FaceTime, texting him back that I’m too busy. I’m looking forward to taking a nice long nap on my lunch break.
That is, until three minutesbeforesaid lunch break, I get an instant message.
Christian Reeves: Come to my office.
I groan quietly to myself and blink away some of the exhaustion. Letting out a sigh, I stand up and make sure to bring my access card with me. When I step into the elevator, I click the button for the top floor, the shiny golden plaque next to it readingCEO - Christian Reeves.
The button turns yellow, and I swipe my card against the scanner. After a second, the button turns green, the elevator closes, and it goes up one floor to let me into Christian’s office. Clearly, he gave me access between the last time I was up here and now.
I wonder what kinds of eyebrows that raised in the building security department.
He’s at his desk, and when we make eye contact, he flashes me those perfect teeth. He’s got his feet propped up on the tabletop again, and I have half a mind to ask him if he does anything up here all day except sit there and look pretty. He’s got a cigarette between two of his fingers and the composure of a man who knows exactly what he wants and how to get it.
I walk around the conference table separating us and stand in front of his desk with my arms crossed over my chest.“Yes, Mr. Reeves?”
“Christian,” he corrects.
Normally, I’d at least attempt to be nice, but I was looking forward to that nap that he’s stolen from me, and bitter irritation is surely painted all over my face. “Can I help you with something?”
“Drop the attitude and sit, Elena.”
I do what he says, my stomach turning at his commanding tone encased in honey. When I sit, he stands, walking around his desk and snuffing out his cigarette in an ashtray. He comes to a stop directly behind me, and I hold my breath when his large, warm hands rest on my shoulders.
“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to shrug him off, but then his thumbs dig into the sore, stiff spot at the base of my neck, and I melt into the touch, my eyes closing and my head falling forward in sweet, sweet relief.
I’m so tired and lost in the way his fingers dance across my skin, that the last thing I remember is warm hands catching me when I slump over.
I wake to the sound of thunder rumbling loud and menacing in the sky. I sit up with a gasp and rub my cheek. I look around the room and panic a little bit, relaxing slightly when I realize I’m just in Christian’s office.
But instead of sitting in the chair where I fell asleep, I’m now lying across a long couch on the right side of the room. My heels and purse are neatly placed next to the foot of the sofa. There’s a buttery-soft navy-blue blanket draped over me.
“Welcome back to the land of the living.”
I jump at the voice. Christian is leaning against the conference table with his hands in his pockets. He’s no longer wearing his suit jacket, and he looks just as delicious as he did in the club—those thick, muscular arms straining against the custom dress shirt embroidered with his initials on the cuffs, now pushed up to his elbows. His red tie is a stark contrast against the pristine white of his shirt.
I blink, trying not to stare at the very obvious self-harm scars across his forearms. “What time is it?”
He pulls out his left hand from his pocket to check his watch. “Seven.”
“Seven!” I scramble to my feet. “Oh my God. I can’t believe I fell asleep. I’m so sorry.” I grab my shoes and hop on one foot and then the other to put them back on. I fumble over my own feet as I stumble around still half-asleep in a panicked circle. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
He laughs and catches me by the elbow as I walk past him towards the elevator. “Because you were tired, and I wanted you to get some sleep.”
I suck in a shameful breath. “I’m so sorry. This was unprofessional. It won’t happen again, I swear.”
He laughs again. “It’s fine. I promise. Stop apologizing. You woke up just in time, anyways. Dinner just got here.”
“Dinner?” I repeat quietly, still in a haze, and he turns his shoulder to reveal two to-go containers, hot and steamy with fresh lasagna. My stomach growls.
“No more of that microwaved crap you eat at lunch every day.” He pokes my grumbling belly.
“Hey! I really like those things. Plus, they’re only a dollar.”
He scoffs at me. “You’ll never want another microwaved lasagna after you taste this one. There’s an Italian restaurant on the South Side that was my mother’s favorite. The owner’s a good friend—I asked him to make this one special.”
He got me lasagna from his late mother’s favorite restaurant after letting me sleep in his office all day? Can this guy get any more perfect?
“Not a date. Dinner,” I say, and he smiles down at me, remembering what he said to me the day I rejected his dinner invitation. Seems he found a way to make it happen regardless of my prior objection. Standing up to his full height after pushing off against the table, he pulls out a chair for me.
