8. Reece
Reece
T he sound of her laughter carries through the glass.
I hear it even from my office, three doors down. Not loud, not obnoxious… just a soft, melodic sound that lands like a stone in the center of my chest. She’s talking to Leo again. Her voice dips, then lifts again, teasing, familiar, just shy of flirtatious.
I don’t like it… alright, I fucking hate it.
I tell myself it’s because workplace dynamics are complicated.
That I’m trying to avoid gossip or inappropriate tension.
That I don’t need the distraction while we’re heading into two massive acquisition negotiations.
That it has nothing to do with the way she looked at me yesterday, from under her lashes, with that devastating combination of challenge and curiosity.
I scroll through my inbox, rereading the same client update for the fourth time without absorbing a single word.
My body’s here, but my mind hasn’t caught up since she walked into the office yesterday morning wearing that fitted navy pencil skirt and a blouse the exact shade of her flushed cheeks when I complimented her copy edits.
She’d looked like trouble wrapped in silk. And I am in no shape to take on more trouble.
A knock on the glass makes me sit up straighter. My door is already open, but she still waits in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other holding a red folder against her chest like a shield.
“I have the mockup for the Fielder brief,” she says. Her tone is neutral. Casual. But her eyes flick to my mouth before she adds, “You have a second?”
God help me .
I nod once and wave her in, forcing my expression blank. “Of course.”
She crosses the room without hesitation, confident in her heels, in her body, in the sharp twist of her waist when she pivots and places the folder on my desk. Her perfume follows her; it’s vanilla and warmth, so intoxicatingly feminine it’s burned into my brain.
She leans slightly over the desk to open the folder. I don’t look at her ass, but I feel the strain in my neck from the effort.
“Leo and I worked through most of the timeline this morning,” she says, flipping to the second page. “I streamlined the client deliverables into weekly goals and marked key decision points in red.”
I murmur something like approval, but it’s drowned out by the pounding in my head. She’s close enough that I can see the edge of her bra beneath her blouse: lace, pale pink, a delicate contrast to her sharp red nails.
“Here.” She taps the page, unaware, or pretending to be, that I’m three seconds away from telling her to take five steps back before I ruin both of our lives.
Her hand lingers, her fingers inches from mine.
I force myself to move in an unhurried manner, reaching for the folder without touching her. My knuckles graze the paper where hers were, and the heat lingers like static. I turn the page just for something to do with my hands.
“Good work,” I say. My voice sounds strained. “Very thorough.”
She smiles. A slow curve, not at all surprised. “I used to be a control freak in group projects. I’m channeling that.”
“Whatever works.” We hover in silence for a second too long. I finally clear my throat. “I’ll review the rest this afternoon. Anything else?”
She hesitates. Just barely.
“No, sir.”
Sir .
It’s not the first time she’s said it, but this time it feels different. Like she’s daring me to flinch. Like she knows damn well what it does to me. But if she does, she doesn’t let it show. She leaves without another word, the click of her heels a taunt echoing down the hallway.
I close the folder and press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
This. Cannot . Happen.
She’s my employee. Temporarily, yes. But still under my supervision. Under my roof, professionally speaking. And I know better. I’ve spent my entire career keeping lines clean, relationships compartmentalized, emotions under control.
It’s what kept the company alive after my late wife Lauren died. It’s what kept Archer from completely unraveling. It’s what kept me sane through the aftermath of selling Blackwood Technologies and becoming everyone’s favorite reluctant billionaire with a sob story.
Control is my currency. And she’s blowing through it like a fucking wildfire.
I don’t know what’s worse, the lust or the longing. Because it isn’t just how she looks or how she moves. It’s the way she listens, really listens. The way she remembers names, cracks jokes that actually make people laugh, slips between sarcasm and sincerity with terrifying ease.
She’s magnetic. And I’m already too close.
I glance at the clock. It’s not even noon. I stand and walk out of my office, ignoring the looks from staff as I head for the kitchen. I need caffeine, cold air, and some serious fucking distance. But then I round the corner and see her there, already pouring a second cup.
She turns, startled, and smiles. “You stalking me now?”
Jesus .
I arch a brow, keeping my voice even. “You’re in my kitchen.”
She shrugs, unfazed. “Guess I’ve been promoted.”
I open the fridge just to give my hands something to do. “Cream?”
“Almond milk. Top shelf.”
Of course she knows where it is. Of course she’s made herself comfortable. I grab the carton and set it down a little too hard on the counter.
She cocks her head. “You okay?”
I glance at her. She’s watching me, eyes wide with carefully arranged innocence. She’s not innocent. Not by a long shot. But she’s also not playing games; I’m just reading into things because I’m clearly fucked in the head.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
She sips her coffee, watching me over the rim. “If I’m doing something wrong, you can tell me.”
The directness punches a hole through my chest.
“You’re not,” I say after a beat.
She leans her hip against the counter. “Then why do you look like you’re one breath away from firing me every time I walk into your office?”
Because I want to bend you over it and sink so deep inside of you, you scream. Because I can ’ t sleep without dreaming about you. Because you are the one thing I can ’ t allow myself to want.
Instead, I say, “I’m not used to this dynamic.”
She blinks. “What dynamic?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to… I don’t think.
She sets her cup down gently, expression softening. “I can be professional, Reece.” Her voice is quiet now. “I’m not here to make your life harder. I just felt like we already kind of knew each other so things were… friendly.”
I hold her gaze, and for a moment, the whole world narrows to the space between us. I want to call her on the term “friendly.” I want to tell her that’s not at all what she’s doing and she knows it, but I’m still not sure she does. Maybe this is just Skye, flirty and tempting and?—
The door swings open behind me, and someone walks in. She steps back instantly, grabbing her coffee and brushing past me like nothing happened. I stay there, frozen, her words circling my head like smoke.
I ’ m not here to make your life harder.
Too late. You already have.
The conference room is full, which should work in my favor. That means noise, movement, other bodies to distract me. But all I can focus on is her.
She sits across the long walnut table, legs crossed, tablet in hand, her focus sharp and unrelenting as she listens to our CFO walk through the quarterly burn rate. She hasn’t looked at me once since the kitchen.
That should make this easier… but it doesn’t.
She’s wearing a sleek black dress with long sleeves and a modest neckline, and somehow, it’s more dangerous than if she’d shown up in lingerie.
It hugs her body, accentuating her nipped waist and round hips.
The hem hits just above the knee. High enough that when she shifts in her chair, I catch the barest glimpse of thigh.
My throat tightens and I feel a slow burn start to work its way up my chest. This isn’t good. This is, in fact, really fucking bad.
I don’t look again. I force myself to focus on the numbers. The deal on the table. The projections. The risk exposure.
But then Leo speaks.
He cuts in just as Nathan finishes a slide, his voice quick—too eager. “We can clean up the Q2 legal line by reallocating some of the Morven counsel overflow. Skye can probably loop in with Ops—handle the admin on that side, right?”
I blink. She blinks.
For a moment, the room stills. Skye turns her head toward him, that measured, polite expression firmly in place. “I’ve already reviewed the Morven contracts. If we reassign oversight to Ops, we lose leverage on the rep-and-warranty clause. I’ll flag the memo for you.”
Leo blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Oh—I didn’t realize you’d taken point. I figured you were still more of a… community assistant.”
Her laugh is quiet. Quick. Nervous. I can tell she’s trying to brush it off, but her shoulders tighten just enough for me to see it. To feel it.
I lean forward, my voice smooth but unmistakably perturbed.
“She’s not a community assistant, Leo, and you damn well know that.
She’s my assistant. And she’s overseeing the legal side of the Morven acquisition because I trust her judgment, so if you have an issue with that, you can take it up with me. ”
The silence that follows isn’t loud, but it hums. Leo’s eyes flick to mine, startled. Then down to his notes.
Skye glances at me, brief but telling. There’s gratitude in it. Surprise, too. Maybe even a little heat she’s trying not to show.
I avert my eyes before I give too much away. Before I forget that we’re in a room full of people and not alone. Not yet.
Leo chuckles awkwardly, scribbling in his notebook like he’s trying to disappear. “Right. Of course. My bad.”
She turns back to her tablet, unreadable. But I can feel the shift. The weight of the moment hanging between us. I shouldn’t care. But I do.
Because the men in this room don’t see her clearly. They don’t know what she’s capable of. Not yet. But I do. And I won’t let anyone, not even some overconfident analyst with a shiny MBA, make her feel small.
Not on my watch.