Lenore
I was sent to work in my uncle’s office as punishment. That’s all you really need to know about this eighth floor nightmare: to my family, this is as good as time served.
Oh, from the outside, this building is pretty. Romantic, even. It’s all carved pale stone and ivy; wrought iron balconies and sparkling glass windows. Historic. A fancy address, because the Hattworths are successful, even if we are criminally boring.
Once you get inside, though… yeah, it’s as beige as you’d expect from my blustering uncle. He runs a stationery company, for god’s sake—the most boring entry in our family’s portfolio. Riding up the floors each morning on the ancient elevator, watching identical beige rooms drift past through the glass, I can feel my life force draining away.
It’s cruel and unusual punishment, my being sent here. Meant to stamp out the last flickers of my spirit.
Because there’s no color in this office. No signs of life. Sad, thirsty house plants wilt in their pots, their leaves curling and browned, while a laminated poster hangs crooked by the staff break room on the third floor, showing the correct way to align your desk chair for lumbar support.
The employees are all dead-eyed and sharp-tongued, bickering among themselves about vacation days and email chains.
Prison. That’s what this is.
All for a tiny misunderstanding.
My saving grace—the only thing keeping me sane while I serve out my sentence—is the scaffolding clinging to the building. Or rather, the men on the scaffolding, sweating and working and laughing out there, their voices seeping through the glass.
They heave building supplies up and down those eight floors like they’re lifting nothing more than feather pillows. They make rowdy jokes, and they eat their lunches out of tin boxes and paper bags, like they’re dock workers from the fifties. It’s awesome. Compared to this sad, hushed office, they’re out there in vivid technicolor.
But I know, I know. I sound like a perv, staring at them like this. Believe me, as I settle behind the assistant’s desk outside my uncle’s office on the top floor, I feel like a grade A perv. My eyes are glued to the office windows, watching the men out there for signs of a dark blond head. I barely blink as I log on to the computer by feel, fingertips jabbing at the clunky keyboard.
See, I’m perving alright, but it’s not all of them that do it for me. I’m not an equal opportunity creeper. There’s one man in particular out there who makes me squirm on my creaky desk chair.
One man I desperately want to see again.
Eight floors is a long way up. I shouldn’t want to distract him, shouldn’t want to distract any of them, and yet I can’t blink, can’t relax, can’t even breathe right until I see him each day.
Dark blond hair and broad shoulders make their way up the scaffolding ladder, and I melt back with a relieved sigh. Today, he’s in a thick navy work shirt, rolled to the elbows and streaked with brick dust, and dark, clinging jeans above tan work boots.
Good. It’s cold out there, and whenever the subject of my obsession wears nothing but a t-shirt in the autumn chill, I get sympathy shivers behind this desk.
The man says something, his voice muffled by the thick glass. He’s pointing at where the carved stonework meets the roof, two workers standing by his shoulder and nodding.
I swallow, but my throat is dry.
My computer pings, a hundred tedious emails already waiting in my inbox, but I ignore them all and keep staring straight ahead. The sky is blue today, the sun sparkling gold in the man’s hair whenever he walks between shadows, pointing out other stuff to his workers.
Gabe .
That’s his name. Gabriel Dempsey. The head of the building crew.
See, Uncle Roderick has been grumping and groaning over nothing, because I have learned something worthwhile during my time here. The man of my dreams is called Gabe.
Somehow, I always know ahead of time when Gabe is gonna look at me. My skin prickles under my clothes, and shivers race up my spine, and my breath catches when green eyes find mine.
Through the glass, out there where the wind tugs at his hair, Gabe smiles at me, slow and teasing.
He knows what that does to me. My cheeks are hot enough to cook an egg, and I fan myself weakly. Gabe winks.
Then he’s back to business, bossing men around and gathering his own tools. He always works on the top level with me, working where the stonework is the most elaborate and delicate. Working where I can barely think straight, I’m so busy staring.
Sometimes, when Gabe wears a t-shirt, it rides up when he reaches overhead. Flashes me a strip of toned abs and his belt buckle. I don’t like the thought of him getting cold out there, but I do like that. With his navy shirt tucked into his jeans like today, no such luck.
Gnawing on the end of a pencil, I drag my gaze back to this stupid computer screen. How can I care about purchase orders when he’s out there? Drilling? Hammering? Sweating?
I squeeze my thighs together, choking back a groan.
“.”
Ugh.
Pasting on a smile, I spin to face my uncle where he glowers from the office doorway. He’s always been mean and bossy, for as long as I can remember—hitching up his belt in that self important way, droning on and on about office supplies and employee failures, because even though Uncle Roderick is in charge, nothing is ever his fault. God forbid.
And until my family decrees it otherwise, he’s got me under his mean old thumb.
“Yes, uncle?” My words are sugar-sweet, my smile pleasant.
He scowls like I just crawled out of a sewer pipe. “I need that contract today. The one from Peterson I booked up the machines I need and ordered all the supplies.” Maybe for once, my uncle will see reason. “Our next show is in a month’s time, and I’m working flat out to keep up already. I could do literally any other night this week, but—”
“No buts.” Uncle Roderick sniffs and hitches up his belt again. Ugh. What I’d give to punch him in his miserable gut. “While you’re working for me, this company is your priority. End of discussion. I spoke to your parents and they agree.”
Ass hats! What’s the point of offering to fund my fashion course if they won’t let me work on the assignments?
This is a control thing. It’s always about control with the Hattworths. It was all fine when my fashion dreams were harmless in their eyes—a suitably feminine hobby until I snared myself some rich banker for a husband. But then I made that mistake, and landed myself behind this desk, and now…
Hot tears burn behind my eyes, but I won’t let them fall. Not with Uncle Roderick here to witness them. Hell no.
“I’ll rearrange my sewing night,” I rasp, because what else can I do? I stupidly accepted my family’s offer of funding my course. Back then, I was even warmed by their offer—I figured they really loved me after all, and wanted me to be happy. Thought this could be a new start for us; a beautiful new relationship where they accept me for who I am.
God, I was dumb. Now, if I want to reach graduation, I need to dance on the Hattworth strings.
Lesson learned. Nothing in this life comes free, and once I’ve graduated, I won’t ever make that mistake again. My family can take their connections and their riches and their social climber aspirations, and shove them where the butler can’t dust.
When my uncle’s door snaps shut behind me, I glance up. Gabe frowns at me through the window, strong arms folded over his chest. Those green eyes are heavy with concern.
Swallowing hard, I duck my head and get back to that inbox.
No time for distractions. Not here. Not now.