Chapter 6 Bree
Bree
Ishould’ve gone home three hours ago.
Actually, scratch that.
But no.
Here I am at 9 PM, squinting at my computer screen, trying to fix whatever unspecified problems His Royal Iciness found with my formatting.
My formatting. Like I’m the one who wrote this thing. I just typed it up and made it look pretty. But apparently the margins are “aggressive” and the font makes him “uncomfortable.”
The font.
Makes him.
Uncomfortable.
I don’t even know what that means. How does Calibri inspire discomfort? It’s literally designed to be the least offensive font in existence.
I rub my eyes and glance at the clock again.
9:07 PM.
My stomach growls. The granola bar I had at six is a distant memory. There’s leftover Thai in my fridge at home that’s probably achieved sentience by now, and I’m still here, changing font sizes.
The 28th floor is deserted except for us. Everyone else clocked out hours ago like rational humans with healthy work-life boundaries. Even Piper, the overly beautiful receptionist, who usually lingers until six-thirty, managed to extract herself by seven.
But not me.
And not him.
Through the glass walls of his office, I can see Nico’s silhouette against the floor-to-ceiling windows. He’s on the phone, pacing like a caged animal. His jacket’s been discarded somewhere and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing those forearms that I absolutely am not noticing.
I force my eyes back to the screen.
Row height. Column width.
Someone please kill me.
From inside his office, I hear the low rumble of his voice. Not the words, just the tone. The voice he uses when he’s about to eviscerate someone.
I’ve heard that voice directed at me around twenty-two times since Monday.
Not that I’m counting.
Okay, I’m totally counting.
The voice gets louder. Angrier. I catch fragments now.
“...not a discussion, Martin...”
“...board authority doesn’t extend to...”
“...question my expenditures again and...”
Oh. Martin Hale. Board member and investor. The guy Elspeth mentioned last week with the kind of polite disdain usually reserved for people who don’t return their shopping carts.
Nico’s pacing intensifies. He catches me looking at him, and angrily fiddles with the smart glass controls, so that the glass becomes opaque and I can no longer see him.
“I FUCKING TOLD YOU NOT TO—” He’s shouting in there now.
Then I hear it.
The unmistakable sound of ceramic meeting glass at high velocity.
CRASH.
My fingers freeze over the keyboard.
Silence.
His office has gone completely quiet.
I should mind my own business. I should keep my head down and finish this stupid report and pretend I didn’t just hear my boss have what sounds like a minor breakdown.
That’s the smart thing to do.
But I am, apparently, not very smart.
I save my document, stand up, smooth my skirt. My work heels click against the floor as I cross the twelve feet to his door.
I knock.
No answer.
“Mr. Rossi?” I call through the door.
Still nothing.
What if he’s hurt...
A dozen scenarios run through my mind, most of which involve him bleeding out on the floor.
God, no.
I open the door.
Nico’s standing at the opaque windows with his back to me, one hand braced against the glass. The other hand is dripping blood onto the floor. Shards of what used to be a coffee mug glitter across the rug like some kind of angry modern art installation.
“Mr. Rossi,” I try again.
He doesn’t turn around. “I’m fine. Go home, Ms. Dawson.”
His voice is dead. The kind of tone that says he’s absolutely not fine and we’re both going to pretend otherwise.
Nope. Not happening this time.
I don’t ask permission. I just turn on my heel, march back to my desk, and grab the first aid kit from the bottom drawer. Cressida mentioned it during my tour.
“Executives sometimes get paper cuts during intense contract negotiations,” she’d said with a straight face.
Right. Paper cuts. That’s definitely what this is.
When I return to his office, he still hasn’t moved.
“I said go home,” he repeats without looking at me. “The report can wait.”
“You know, I never really did take orders well,” I reply, stepping carefully over the shards. My heels crunch.
“Your whole job is taking orders,” he seethes.
“Yeah well, not tonight.” I grab his wrist.
He goes very, very still.
For a second I think he’s going to pull away. Tell me to get out. Fire me on the spot for insubordination or inappropriate touching or whatever excuse he wants to use.
Instead, he just lets me turn his hand over.
The cut runs across his palm, not deep but definitely bleeding.
“Sit,” I order, pointing at his desk chair.
“I’m fine,” he repeats.
“You’re bleeding. Sit down before you pass out and I have to explain to Callahan why your unconscious body is spilling blood all over the carper.”
His mouth twitches.
Did I just make him almost-smile?
He sits.
I pull over the second chair, the one meant for visitors, and position myself directly in front of him. Our knees almost touch. The first aid kit opens with a soft click.
This close, I can smell him. That woody, spicy cologne with the faint metallic notes from whatever he does in the R&D labs. The same scent that was all over my sheets that morning...
Focus, Bree.
I grab the antiseptic wipe.
“This is going to sting,” I warn.
“I’ve had worse.”
Yeah. I know. I’ve traced those scars on your face with my fingertips.
Stop.
I clean the cut as gently as I can. He doesn’t flinch, but I see his free hand grip the armrest. The leather creaks under his fingers.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“Don’t be.”
I spot a fragment of the mug embedded in his wound. “What did you do? Crush the cup in your grip?”
“Something like that,” he replies.
I tweeze out the ceramic fragment.
“What were you arguing about?” I ask distractedly.
“Board politics.” His voice is tight. “Martin Hale has opinions about how I spend company money.”
“Martin Hale sounds like he has opinions about everything.”
He frowns. “You’ve met him?”
“No. But Elspeth mentioned him last week. She didn’t sound... overly impressed with him.” I apply another antiseptic wipe. The blood is slowing. Good.
“He wants to restructure the grant program,” Nico says quietly. “Make it more ‘financially efficient.’ Which is code for ‘let’s cut the parts that actually help people.’”
I glance up. His dark eyes are watching my hands work. Watching me clean his blood away.
“And you told him to fuck off.”
He nods. “Yeah. You heard it, right?”
I grab the gauze and start wrapping. My fingers are shaking slightly. Adrenaline probably. Or the fact that these are the same hands that touched me and...
This is absolutely not the time for that particular mental detour.
His thumb brushes my wrist as I tie off the gauze.
I don’t move.
Neither does he.
We just stay there, touching, and the air between us crackles.
Say something. Anything.
“You should probably avoid crushing mugs,” I manage. My voice sounds weird. Breathless.
“Noted. But in my defense, I slammed my mug down. Maybe a bit too hard.”
“I’ll say.” I finish tying off the bandage and slide back. Put safe distance between us. “All done. Try not to bleed on anything important.”
I start gathering the first aid supplies. The wrappers. The bloody wipes.
“Bree.”
I stop.
He never calls me Bree. It’s always Ms. Dawson.
I turn back.
He’s still sitting in his chair, still watching me with those dark eyes. The bandage on his hand looks almost absurdly white against his olive skin.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
And just like that, my heart does a stupid little flip in my chest. Or maybe that’s my stomach.
Don’t do this to yourself.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Rossi.” I let the formality slam back into place because, well, I can’t do this, and I don’t want to get hurt. He’s my boss.
His expression shutters. “Go home, Ms. Dawson. It’s late.”
Back to the ice.
It’s what I want, isn’t it?
That’s what I keep telling myself.
“The report—” I begin.
“Can wait until morning,” he finishes.
“But you said—”
“I changed my mind.” His voice becomes dismissive. “Good night.”
I nod. “Good night, Mr. Rossi.”
I turn.
As I walk out, my heels crunch on glass. The sound echoes in the silent office. I reach the doorway.
Don’t look back.
Don’t you dare look back.
I look back.
He’s still sitting in his chair, staring down at the white bandage on his hand like he’s never seen it before.
Then I’m out the door, past my desk, down the hall, through the glass entrance, and into the elevator bank. The main elevator arrives mercifully fast.
I step inside and jab the lobby button like it personally offended me.
The doors close.
I lean against the wall and close my eyes.
What the hell was that?
The elevator dings. Lobby.
I step out into the marble and glass emptiness. The evening shift security guard at the front desk nods at me. I must look like hell because his expression shifts to something almost sympathetic.
Outside, I pull out my phone and open the Uber app. Because there’s no way I’m taking the subway at 9:30 PM after the day I’ve had. Student loans can handle one rideshare fee.
8 minutes away.
Nico is probably still sitting in his office, staring at that bandage, wondering why he let me touch him.
I know the feeling.
My phone buzzes. Sora.
You alive? Haven’t heard from you all day.
I laugh. It comes out watery. Still alive. Just working late. Heading home now.
Your boss still being an asshole?
I stare at the text. Yeah. Pretty much.
Want me to come over? I’ve got wine and ice cream and terrible reality TV.
God, I love her. Rain check? I’m exhausted.
Okay but if you need me just say the word. Love you.
I smile. Love you too.
A silver Prius pulls up to the curb. Matches my app.
I climb into the back seat and give the driver a tired smile.
“Astoria, right?” he asks.
“That’s right,” I reply.
“Long day?” He pulls into traffic.
I force a weary grin. “You have no idea.”
As we turn onto 10th Avenue, I look back one more time.
The building rises behind us, all glass and steel. Nico is still up there, on the 28th floor. I can still feel the phantom warmth of his skin against my fingers. Still smell his cologne. Still see the way he looked at me when I was bandaging his hand.
I close my eyes, shake my head.
I’m a secretary.
He’s a billionaire CEO.
It can never work.
And yet why can’t I get him out of my head, no matter what I do?
Get it together, Bree.
The driver merges onto the Queensboro Bridge. Manhattan’s lights spread out behind us like a promise I’m not sure I believe in anymore.
I watch the city disappear in the rearview mirror and wonder how many more nights like this I can survive.