Twice.
I escape his office and close the door behind me with extreme care.
Then I lean back against it, shut my eyes, and press both hands to my flaming cheeks.
I have been in this job for one month.
One month.
And I have already touched my boss’s naked chest, insulted his photograph, stared at his towel, and disappointed myself by wishing gravity had been a little more committed.
From inside the office, there is a low sound.
A grunt.
Maybe irritation.
Maybe amusement.
Maybe Jordan Richmond’s official response to finding his secretary losing her mind in increasingly creative ways.
I push away from the door and hurry back to my desk, trying to walk like a normal person with normal knees.
My phone buzzes again under my notebook.
Lydia.
The name waits on the screen, pretty and sharp.
The real world trying to shove its way back in.
I ignore it for one more second.
Because my hands still remember Jordan’s skin.
Because he is a terrifying, tattooed, grunting mountain of a man who apparently escaped his mother’s guest-room invasion, walked into work in gray sweatpants, and still managed to catch his clumsy secretary before she hit the floor.
I sit down, stare at my untouched coffee, and take a shaky breath.
“Professional,” I whisper.
An hour later, the executive floor has filled with low voices, ringing phones, and the soft click of expensive shoes. I have almost convinced myself the morning is under control.
Then the elevator dings.
I look up.
Lydia steps out first, all glossy blonde hair, pink dress, and perfect smile.
Wesley follows beside her.
My stomach drops.
He looks different now. He has for months. No glasses after the eye surgery, no soft old hoodies, no shy smile meant only for me. Just styled hair, gym-built shoulders, and the polished confidence of a man who decided one day that I no longer fit beside him.
Lydia’s hand is tucked around his arm.
“Natalie,” she sings.
