12. Lucy
CHAPTER 12
Lucy
I sit at my desk, trying to focus on the spreadsheet in front of me, but my mind keeps drifting back to Jarvin. His presence lingers in the office like a constant hum.
Every time he walks by his commanding stride sends a jolt through me. It's almost maddening the way my body responds. I tell myself it’s only irritation, but deep down, I know it’s something more.
His offer for dinner lingers in the back of my mind. But what if he finds out I'm not the person he thinks I am? He met me with confidence fueled by wine and the understanding that he was just a stranger, someone I shared a fleeting moment of connection with.
I need this job badly, I remind myself, almost having told Jarvin as much. He makes it easy to open up and be vulnerable with, but that crosses every one of the boundaries I’m desperately trying to cling to.
Yet, as our eyes meet across the room, there's an electric tension that’s impossible to ignore. He looks at me with those intense eyes, and for a moment, everything else fades away.
I quickly look back down at my screen, feigning intense concentration on the numbers that have started to blur together.
Forcing myself to refocus, I start typing again. But it’s no use. Each click of the keys feels like an echo in an empty room. I know why this is so hard—it’s not just irritation or professional tension; it's attraction. And that terrifies me because letting him in means opening up parts of myself, I’ve kept locked away for too long.
I’m deep into editing a report when Jarvin’s shadow falls across my desk. I look up, and there he is, looming over me with that authoritative presence that’s impossible to ignore. My heart skips a beat, but I force myself to maintain a neutral expression.
“Lucy, I need you to look over these projections for the new project,” he says, his tone commanding, sending a shiver through my body.
I nod, keeping my face composed. “Of course, Mr. Thraknar. I’ll get on it right away.”
He hands me a folder, his fingers brushing mine for a brief moment. The contact makes my heart race, but I quickly pull my hand back and open the folder, pretending to be engrossed in its contents.
He doesn’t move immediately, and I can feel his eyes on me. It’s as if he’s trying to read beyond my composed exterior. I resist the urge to look up and meet his gaze, knowing that if I do, he might see past the professional facade I'm forcing myself to wear.
“Make sure you prioritize this,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“Understood,” I say, finally looking up at him with what I hope is an expression of calm professionalism.
He nods and turns to leave, but not before giving me one last lingering glance. As soon as he walks away, I let out a deep breath. My fingers tremble slightly as I turn the pages of the folder. His proximity has left me rattled in a way that’s hard to shake off.
I can’t stop thinking about him—his commanding presence, the way his voice sends literal shivers down my spine. I clench my jaw and force myself to stay on task.
For now, all I can do is bury myself in work and hope it’s enough to keep these feelings at bay.
Later, during a team meeting, I sit at the far end of the table, my notepad open in front of me, pen poised for notes. Jarvin stands at the head of the room, leading the discussion with a natural ease and authority that commands attention.
“What’s a CEO’s favorite type of humor? Profit and loss puns – they’re always on the money!” The room erupts in laughter.
His voice is smooth, confident, each word carefully chosen to drive his point home. The team hangs on his every word, captivated by his charisma and laughing along with him.
I feel a pang of something sharp and uncomfortable—something I quickly label as annoyance. “He’s too confident,” I think to myself, gripping my pen tighter. “Too used to being in control.” His wealth and commanding demeanor should be enough reasons to keep my distance. But even as I think it, I know there's more to it than that.
Jarvin’s gaze sweeps the room, making sure everyone is engaged. When his eyes land on me, my heart skips a beat. He directs a question my way, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
“Lucy, what are your thoughts on the proposed budget adjustments?” he asks, his voice firm yet inviting.
I can feel my face heating up as every eye in the room turns toward me. My mind races to formulate an answer, but all I can focus on is the way his eyes seem to see right through me.
“Well… uh… I think,” I stutter, fumbling over my words. The room feels like it's closing in on me. “The adjustments… they’re reasonable considering our projections.” My voice sounds shaky even to my own ears, and I can’t help the feeling that I've just exposed some deep vulnerability.
“Just reasonable?! Jarvin is the man…well, orc!” Greg jokes and the room erupts again. Jarvin laughs along, but his eyes find mine and I have to suppress the shiver that runs through me.
I force myself to look away from him and down at my notes, hoping to find some semblance of composure there.
Jarvin nods thoughtfully at my response before moving on to another topic, but I can still feel his eyes on me for a fraction longer than necessary. It’s irritating how much he affects me. I convince myself it’s nothing—anything but acknowledging how he makes me feel so unguarded and seen.
As he continues with the meeting, effortlessly steering the conversation from one agenda item to another, I force myself to stay focused on taking notes. My irritation simmers beneath the surface, masking the true nature of my discomfort: fear of vulnerability.
Days pass, and my irritation grows like a weed. Every time Jarvin’s deep voice carries through the office, it grates on my nerves. I snap at minor inconveniences, like when the printer jams shooting paper flying across the office.
“That’s the sign of a good secretary, working so hard the printer can’t keep up!” someone jokes.
The rustling of paper falling to the floor adds insult to injury. The soundtrack to my humiliation. “Are you serious!” I exclaim as the flush of frustration rises to my face.
Jarvin comes striding over brushing past me and easily solves the problem.
Of course he has to make it look effortless too while I’m gathering what’s left of my dignity from the ground.
“Gotta take it easy there Lucy, you almost flooded the whole office,” he says, chuckling as he helps me gather the papers.
My colleagues exchange wary glances but say nothing, probably chalking it up to stress from the workload.
Jarvin’s presence looms large in every corner of the office. It feels like he’s always there, a constant reminder of the complicated feelings I’m trying to bury. His casual “Good morning” and polite "how are you” feel like needles pricking at my carefully constructed armor.
One afternoon, while working late on a project, I hear his footsteps approaching. My shoulders tense instinctively.
“Need any help with that data analysis?” His tone is firm, leaving little room for refusal.
I don’t look up. “I can manage,” I reply curtly, my fingers gripping the edge of my desk. The air between us thickens with unspoken tension.
He stands there for a moment, taken aback by my sharp response. I sense him regaining his composure quickly.
“Alright,” he says, his voice measured and calm. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
As he walks away, guilt gnaws at me. My clenched fists tremble slightly as I try to suppress it. It’s easier to tell myself I’m annoyed by his constant presence than to admit the real reason behind my behavior— I like him.
At home after work, I sit on my couch, a glass of wine in hand, staring blankly at the TV. The movie I put on for background noise barely registers. My mind keeps drifting back to Jarvin, his presence haunting me even in the quiet of my apartment.
His confident demeanor is impossible to ignore. The way he walks into a room and commands attention—it’s like he was born to lead. His easy smile disarms people, including me, despite my best efforts to stay aloof. And those eyes... they’re so piercing, like they can see right through my defenses.
“We’re too different,” I mutter to myself, taking a sip of wine. “He wouldn’t understand me.”
I think back to the moments when his kindness felt too intense, like when he brought me that cup of coffee and left that note. It’s these small gestures that make me feel exposed, vulnerable in ways I’m not ready to confront. His actions are genuine, but they chip away at the walls I’ve built around myself.
But even I know it’s just a convenient excuse. The real issue isn’t his wealth or confidence—it’s my fear of rejection and vulnerability.
What if he’s the complete opposite of what he’s shown me? And then I have to quit my job and change my name.
I shake my head at my own dramatics and take a sip of wine. He’s confident, he’s successful and he’s nice. He’s perfect. But that still doesn’t change anything, I just need to do better at not letting him affect me.
The next day at work, I’m determined to keep my distance. I bury myself in spreadsheets and reports, avoiding unnecessary interactions. But it's impossible to ignore the constant undercurrent of tension whenever Jarvin is nearby. I catch a glimpse of him through the glass walls of his office, my resolve wavers just a little.
Around mid-morning, I find another note on my desk. This time, it’s a simple thank you for my hard work on the Henderson project. My heart races as I read it. The bold handwriting and the thoughtful words send a rush of conflicting emotions through me.
For a moment, I hold the note in my hand, torn between keeping it and discarding it. But then I remind myself that getting involved with Jarvin would complicate everything. I crumple the note and throw it in the trash, telling myself it's for the best.
Just as I'm starting to regain my focus, Jarvin approaches my desk. His presence looms over me, demanding attention.
"Lucy," he begins, his tone direct and commanding. "I need clarification on these figures for the newest project."
I glance up briefly, avoiding his gaze. "The projections are based on last quarter's performance," I reply briskly, pointing to the relevant section in the report.
He leans in slightly, examining the document. "And these adjustments?"
"They account for market fluctuations," I say, keeping my voice steady but curt. "It's all detailed in the appendix."
He nods, but I can feel his eyes on me, searching for something beyond the professional facade I'm trying so hard to maintain.
"Good work," he says finally before turning to leave.
For a split second, as he walks away, I want to call him back; to tell him how much his acknowledgment means to me. It's a fleeting, almost desperate urge that I quickly smother, pushing those feelings down deep where they can't hurt me.
Keeping things strictly business is the only way I know to protect myself from getting hurt again. It's safer this way, or at least that's what I keep telling myself.