FOUR
SAM
The day is busy as hell. Which is no different from all the days that came before it, to be honest.
One thing that has become glaringly obvious in the two weeks I’ve been here, is that a shocking number of things goes through Devon.
Whether that’s because there are clients that request a meeting with him specifically, cases he oversees personally, or the company’s many, many other ongoing affairs he asks to be kept informed about, it doesn’t matter. He has eyes on everything.
He’s the beating heart of this company, and it’s clear how much he cares about it.
The problem is he barely has time to breathe every day. I have to fight tooth and nail to make sure he’s not double-booked most times, or that he actually has time to take a break.
It’s the reason I made those muffins for him.
My face flames as I type away on my keyboard, but thankfully, no one is paying attention to me, everyone just passing through, minding their own business.
Because yeah, I might have told him a teeny, tiny lie when I said I’d simply and casually brought a few muffins because I just happened to make them.
I didn’t. I made them for him, to indulge his out-of-control sweet tooth. To make sure he had something sweet to start his day. Something I’d made. Something I hoped he’d like.
My typing slows until it stops completely, my gaze dropping to my phone as my fingers itch to pick it up.
I won’t. I’m strong. I will definitely not open our earlier text conversation for the third time, and grin stupidly at it.
Okay, the fourth time, but who’s counting?
I sigh, picking up the phone for the fifth time.
I should be appalled by my lack of restraint. Too bad the flutters in my stomach are all I can focus on as I read the text message I got a couple of hours ago.
Devon: We’ve got a problem.
Me: What kind of problem?
Devon: The muffins were delicious.
God, even after having read this six times, I still have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep my smile in check.
Me: Muffins, plural?
Devon: There is a strong possibility I ate more than one.
Me: More than one as in…
Devon: All of them.
I hunch down in my seat, hiding as much as possible behind my screen and hoping nobody sees my face even by accident, because there’s no way in hell it doesn’t look like a tomato right now.
Me: So, what’s the problem?
Devon: The problem is there are none left.
Me: Devon?
Devon: Yeah?
Me: Do you want me to make more?
Devon: Yes.
Devon: Make more, Sammy.
Sammy.
The name feels like a gentle breeze that ruffles the short hair on my nape, a soft caress that whispers over my skin and fills me with an impossible ache.
I wonder what it’d be like if he pressed that name against my throat, if he mouthed it on me over and over until it sank inside me and stayed there forever.
Why did he call me that?
He shouldn’t have called me that, not when it’ll only make me start reading things into it, and I can’t. I can’t do it.
He’s just kind, and yeah, it’s safe to say he likes me. In general. As a person. But that’s as far as it goes. As far as it’ll ever go.
I’m his assistant. He’s my boss. This is a business relationship. Just business.
I swallow past the stupid lump in my throat.
Damn it, how did I manage to land myself in this mood when it felt like I was floating just minutes ago?
The sound of the door opening has my eyes snapping up, my heart skipping several beats when I meet Devon’s warm gaze.
Fuck, I forgot how good he looks today in his sandy sweater that fits him perfectly. He almost never wears anything other than suits, so to see him in something a little more casual is… nice.
I snort internally.
Nice. Right.
His lips stretch into a playful smile that catapults me straight into floating-land again.
God, I’m so damn easy.
“Ready for lunch, Mr. Hartwell?”
I let loose the grin I’d been holding on to ever since he told me to join him for lunch, and stand up, grabbing the bag with the lunch I ordered for both of us from the deli down the street.
“Absolutely, Mr. Kingston.”
He leaves the door open for me, but doesn’t move away when I get closer.
My shoulder brushes against his arm, and the need to stop, to stay right there where some tiny part of mine is touching some tiny part of his, to lean into the wonderful heat that travels down my arm and let myself get lost in his scent, is so strong I have no idea how I manage to step past him.
To cut myself off before I do something monumentally idiotic.
Like tuck myself into his arms, and bury my nose in the hollow of his throat until I feel nothing but him.
I set the bag with the food down on the dark coffee table in front of the lush, leather couch, just as I hear the door closing. But when there are no sounds of steps, I glance over my shoulder, only to see that Devon hasn’t moved an inch from his spot.
He hasn’t moved, but his eyes are on me, glowing with an intense glint that makes my body tremble.
Fuck, why—why is he looking at me like that? Did I give myself away? Did I pause for too long, breathe him in too much?
The air crackles with electricity, setting me on edge.
Relief floods me when the tension breaks, and his lips tip up into the smile I know well, every muscle in my body loosening at the comfort of that familiar smile.
My eyes track him as he comes closer, close enough that I can see every speck of blue in his gray gaze.
“What did you get me, Sammy?” he asks softly, the words spoken quietly, almost… intimately.
Even if that’s not the case, it feels so good hearing him talk to me like this.
“A lot of everything.”
He chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“My favorite.”
“I know,” I say as I pull out a couple of packets from the bag, and hand them to him. “I hope you’re hungry.”
He takes the food from me, his hand grazing mine in the process.
My heart thunders at the simple touch, and I can’t move as I look up at him and fall into that stormy gaze.
“Starving.” A hoarse whisper. “I’m starving, Sammy.”
Something coils low in my belly, a sensation I haven’t felt in so long, not since that night.
With him.
Want. Pure, undiluted want.
Fuck.
“You should have told me sooner,” I manage to say, some part of my brain thankfully still operational.
Devon flashes me a smile, and I draw a much-needed breath when he steps back, trying to look as normal as possible as he rounds the coffee table to sit on the couch.
“What would you have done if I’d told you?” His eyes sparkle as he tears the wrapper of the first sandwich I got him, which is basically what he orders every day—chicken cutlet, mayo, lettuce, tomato.
He lets out a contented hum when he takes the first bite, and I can’t help but smile too at the way he so obviously enjoys his food as I sit next to him.
“I don’t know.” I tear open my own sandwich, the mouthwatering aromas of my Italian sub reminding me how hungry I actually am as well. “Probably come up with a fake emergency, and if that didn’t work, end your video-call accidentally on purpose. Might have lost you a client, but what can you do?”
Devon chokes when he tries to laugh, his body quietly shaking as he swallows the mouthful of food, and I bite down on my sandwich to hide my grin.
“Such little consideration for my clients. Have you no shame?”
“None when it comes to you.”
It’s possible my brain-to-mouth filter has been compromised from being so close to him, because what the hell was that?
He makes me stupid.
No. He makes me honest.
Hot embarrassment burns my cheeks, and I wish I could look anywhere else but at him, turn my head so he doesn’t see every single thing I’m feeling bleeding all over my face with each second I spend with him.
But I can’t. I can’t look away, and most importantly, I don’t want to.
Not when I feel the wonderful weight of his silver gaze on me, falling on me soft and burning. Wonderfully addictive.
It’s almost enough to make me miss his next words.
“I’m sorry, Sam.”
I blink at him in surprise.
“For what?”
His jaw tightens, his frustration clear.
“For being curt with you this morning when you offered to lighten my schedule.”
My heart flutters in my chest at what he’s saying, my mind rushing to the moment he’s referring to.
“You were trying to help, and I shut you down.”
It bothers him.
It really bothers him.
But… why? He’s my boss. He’s allowed to show it if he doesn’t agree with something I say or do. He doesn’t need to worry about hurting my feelings. He’s treated me better than anyone ever has.
Wait, is that—
Is that why he invited me to lunch? Because he felt bad and wanted to make it up to me?
Forget the flutters. There’s a whole damn riot happening inside me right now.
I reach for him without even thinking, placing my hand on his forearm, resisting the urge to let my fingers dig into the tight muscle.
“Hey. You don’t have to apologize, or explain yourself to me. I just… wanted to give you a break. You never take a break.” His arm flexes under my touch, his eyes peering unflinchingly into mine. “I just really hate it when you don’t take a break,” I finish in a whisper.
Please, take care of yourself.
The office is quiet, so quiet no sounds of the workday still going on filter through these walls. So quiet it feels like it’s just us two, existing in the brief pause of everything.
His skin under my palm is hot, and Devon’s gaze drops to where I’m still touching him, drawing my gaze there as well.
He’s rolled up the sleeve of his thin sweater to his elbow. We’re nothing but skin on skin.
I should pull back.
Fuck, why is it so difficult to pull back?
“You know how alphas are, Sam,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on our point of contact. “If there’s one thing we despise is looking weak to our—” he stops, his throat bobbing with his swallow. “To other people.”
His voice is rough, and it makes something inside my chest squeeze tightly.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s possible for you to look weak, Devon.”