"Sir, Miss Beaumont is here."
I glance at my watch. 8:47 AM. Right on time.
"Send her in."
The door opens, and there she is.
Harper Beaumont walks into my office with careful, measured steps—not the confident stride from Vegas, but something more centered, more aware.
Wearing a dark pencil skirt, a fitted cream sweater, and a navy blazer, her silky golden-brown hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and there's barely any color in her cheeks—like she's deliberately trying to look neutral, unremarkable.
A difficult feat, of course.
But Harper Beaumont is many things, but unremarkable isn’t one of them.
My gaze skims over her long, lithe curves, my pulse pounding as she ambles to a stop in my office.
"Good morning, Mr. Kade," she says, and there's just the slightest emphasis on the formality. "Gina mentioned you wanted to see me before orientation?"
She's nervous. I can see it in the way she's gripping her portfolio.
"Sit," I say, gesturing to the chair across from my desk.
She does, immediately, smoothing her skirt as she settles. "I have to say, this is quite the office. Very...Brutalist? Is that the word? Or is it just ‘chicly bland'? Or that design philosophy that says 'I have a lot of money and a pathological need for control.'"
I raise a brow. “Are you quite finished?"
"With my interior design critique? Yes. For now." She sets her portfolio on her lap. "You wanted to see me?"
I ignore the question, going with one of my own. “How was your flight back?"
"Oh, it was lovely. Nothing says 'welcome to your new job' quite like being bundled onto your boss's private jet to avoid paparazzi." She pauses. "Though I appreciate the gesture. Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Another beat of silence.
"So," she says, her tone light, "I'm guessing this isn't a 'welcome to the team' breakfast meeting situation?"
"No. It's not."
"Didn't think so. You don't really give off 'welcome breakfast' energy. More 'quarterly earnings call' energy. Sorry. That was—I'll stop talking now."
I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled. "I've made a decision about our situation."
Her grip tightens almost imperceptibly on her portfolio. "Okay."
"We're not getting an annulment. Not immediately."
“Wait, what did you just say?”
“I said…We’re going to stay married. For two months."
"Two months," she repeats slowly. Then, with a slight smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, "Wow. Most people at least make it to the three-month mark before the first marital decision. We're really speed-running this marriage thing, aren't we?"
“Do you think this is a joke, Miss Beaumont?”
"No, of course not. This is a perfectly serious conversation between a boss and his employee who happen to also be accidentally married. And I—Again, sorry. Nervous talker. What do you mean by 'stay married'?"
