I nearly jump out of my skin.
It’s Franklin, sauntering in, built like a snowdrift stuffed into a perfectly tailored suit.
“Morning,” I squeak.
He gives me a slow once-over, nostrils flaring just slightly. “You look… different today.”
“Different?” I repeat, already sweating despite the office’s Antarctic temps.
“Yeah.” He leans against my desk. “Relaxed. Happier. Did something good happen?”
Abort mission. Power down. Pretend to be an unplugged printer.
“Uh, no. Just—good sleep,” I say, rushing. “The kind that leaves you pleasantly sore—” I stop. “Rested. I meant rested. Wow. I’m going to stop talking now.”
Franklin blinks, expression unreadable. “Right. Well, good for you. You’re usually a ball of stress.”
“Thank you?”
He nods, lumbers off, and I collapse into my chair, praying he can’t smell what actually changed.
Different. He said I looked different.
Do I?
I power on my computer and catch my reflection on the screen. Hair slightly mussed, skin glowing, lips—okay, maybe still a little swollen. And on my neck, the faintest scratch. A tusk-mark. Damn it.
I need to focus on work. Emails. Calendars. Expensereports. Anything that doesn’t have Greg’s name attached to it—or Greg’s immense hands, or Greg’s massive?—
Stop.
I shake my head and open an expense spreadsheet, pretending numbers are sexy. Spoiler alert: they are not.
Except the column labeled 69.
I do my best to focus.
Just before lunchtime, my phone buzzes.
Greg: You free for lunch? I brought leftover Thai. There’s enough for two.
My heart stumbles.
Gods, he’s thoughtful.
Sean: Thanks! Busy day though. Brought a sandwich. Might just eat at my desk.
The typing bubbles appear then vanish.
And there it is—the guilt. Instant and heavy.
He’s probably standing in that too-dim server room, phone in one hand, brow furrowed, wondering what he did wrong. And he did nothing wrong. I just… can’t risk it.
I can’t be the office gossip story. The head of BR’s new admin sneaking around with the IT guy. Not when I’ve worked so hard to get this position. Not when a single misstep could cost me everything.
So I keep my head down.
When he walks past later—shirt sleeves rolled up, glasses slipping down his nose, faint mark on his neckthat I put there—I pretend to be fascinated by a printer error.
