I inhale through my nose and click open a vendor email.
Work. We are working.
Professional Natalie lives here now.
The elevator dings.
I freeze.
No.
Absolutely not.
My gaze snaps to the clock.
Six twenty-eight.
That is not possible.
No one else is supposed to be here.
I have not had time to prepare my face.
The elevator doors slide open, and Jordan Richmond steps out.
He is not in a suit.
Oh, sweet mercy, he is not in a suit.
He is wearing gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, and my brain takes one look at him and politely walks into traffic.
He stops just outside the elevator, big and broad and dark against all that expensive glass. His hair is mussed, like he left in a hurry. His jaw is covered in rough stubble. Tattoos curl down one forearm, the ink disappearing under the sleeve stretched around his bicep.
The T-shirt is plain white cotton.
It is also fighting for its life.
The sweatpants are worse.
Much worse.
There are things a responsible human woman should not know about her boss before breakfast, and yet here we are.
His green-silver eyes land on me.
I sit up so fast my chair makes a tiny, wounded squeak.
“Mr. Richmond.”
My voice comes out too high.
His gaze flicks over me, quick and sharp. Desk. Computer. The coffee I forgot on my desk yesterday. Me.
“You’re here.”
Two words.
Not good morning.
