4. Harrison
HARRISON
I hate these meetings.
Boardroom full of smug suits who think my last name is a footnote and my résumé a typo. Half of them pretend to listen while checking the value of their weekend homes. The other half are waiting for me to trip over a decimal point so they can pounce like it proves something.
I didn’t go to Stanford. I didn’t come from old money. I didn’t intern because my dad pulled strings—I started in this company sweeping floors.
And now I run the damn budget.
So when someone says—offhand, like it’s harmless—“Well, we all know a four-year degree is the minimum for leadership material,” it takes everything I’ve got not to snap the damn pen in my hand.
I glance up from the report in front of me, nice and slow, and meet eyes with the speaker—David Brinley, head of one of our satellite operations in Seattle. Business casual arrogance in a blazer. MBA from somewhere expensive. Hair like it’s still 1998.
“You know,” I say, as I lean back in my chair and cross one ankle over my knee, “it’s funny. The unfortunate side effect of having a college education is underestimating people who don’t.”
His expression falters just enough for me to keep going.
I smile, just a little. Just enough. “Remind me, David, how’s your department doing with quarterly hiring? Last I checked, your churn rate was hovering above eighteen percent.”
A few heads swivel.
David stiffens. “That’s a regional issue. We’re working on retention strategies.”
“Sure you are,” I say. “Maybe next time you need help with problem-solving, you can find someone who didn’t spend four years memorizing case studies and another ten paying off the loans.”
I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. People go quiet. Gavin doesn’t interrupt. Jack just scribbles something in the margins of his packet. The point’s been made.
I go back to my report like it never happened, but the heat behind my collar doesn’t fade for a while. After the meeting, I make a slow loop through the executive floor to cool down.
I don’t do outbursts. I don’t do pride fights. But every once in a while, someone like David reminds me that no matter how many digits are on my paycheck, I’m still the guy who came from nothing.
And yeah, I’m the CFO now. But people like David still assume I got lucky. Some things will never change.
I round the corner toward the executive assistant workstations—and stop short. Because she’s there.
Parker Simon.
Brown curly hair twisted up messily, a pen between her teeth, reading something on her tablet like it’s a puzzle she needs to solve with her whole soul.
Jenna was Gavin’s last EA, and don’t get me wrong, she was sharp as hell. But Parker? Parker makes the air around her feel brighter. Lighter. Like someone opened a window in this too-polished building and let in the sun.
I shouldn’t be looking at her like this. But it’s impossible not to.
She’s leaning forward slightly, reading something on the monitor. Her skirt hugs her hips, and I catch the curve of her calf just visible from my angle. Jesus.
I have half a mind to walk over and ask her if she needs help with whatever she’s reading, just so I can hear her voice again.
It’s not overly sweet, not high-pitched like some of the junior assistants who think giggling is currency.
Parker’s voice is smart. Quick. That warmth in it isn’t performative—it’s real.
And it’s pulling me in like a goddamn magnet.
I’m halfway there when I hear a voice. “Morning, Harrison.”
I turn.
Phil is all smiles, holding a cup of coffee like it’s just another Monday, not a tightrope walk over a firepit.
“Phil.” I nod, switching into neutral. “How’s marketing this week?”
“Depends. If I tell you we need to increase digital spend by twenty percent, are you going to yell at me?”
“Only internally.”
He laughs. “Fair enough. I figured I’d catch you before you lock yourself in a budget dungeon.”
“I’m always locked in a budget dungeon.”
His eyes flick past me to where Parker’s still working. I see the flicker in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Phil’s not dumb. And I’m not subtle.
“She’s doing well,” he says casually, but the tone shifts. “Settling in fast.”
“She seems competent,” I say, which is true and also nowhere near the full truth.
“She is,” he says, sipping his coffee. “And she’s family. You know what I mean.”
I nod once. “I do.” That’s the line, then. Drawn with a smile, but it’s a line all the same. She’s off-limits. Which I already knew. Hell of a lot of good it did Friday night.
I’ve been hearing about it since before she even started. Gavin told me once, Jack too. Don’t look twice. Don’t think about it. Phil will lose his shit.
But now she’s here. And thinking about her is getting harder to avoid.
Lunch is with Phil. It was supposed to be casual. I chose a spot near the office, somewhere with overpriced salads and cold brew on tap. Neutral. Professional.
He’s tense from the moment he sits down. “You saw the shit about my sister, right?” Straight into it. No small talk.
“Yeah,” I say. “Came across it Saturday night.”
He leans forward. “Is it bullshit?”
“I don’t know.”
He gives me a look. “Come on.”
“There’s no video,” I say. “Just audio. Audio can be faked. Hell, video can be faked too. You know that. You work in marketing. You’ve seen what AI can do.”
“But it sounded real.”
“Sound is subjective. Hell, I could record you right now and make it sound like you’re serenading a goat in five minutes with the right software.”
He doesn’t laugh. Instead, his face falls into serious territory—unusual for Phil.
I get it. It’s his sister. “Look, man,” I say, keeping my tone level, “you know me. You know Jack. You know Gavin. If something had happened…we wouldn’t let her take the fall. We’d protect her.”
He sighs. Leans back in his chair. “I want to believe you.”
“Then do.”
“She’s off-limits,” he says again, quietly.
“I know.” It’s the third time in two days I’ve been told the same damn thing. And it would stick, it really would?—
If she weren’t everywhere .
Back in the office, I try to focus. Numbers.
Reports. Projections. But the problem is, Parker’s voice is in my head.
That soft “thank you” from Friday when I handed her a set of onboarding files.
The way her lips had parted around the words.
The scent she wore—some mix of citrus and vanilla that still clings to my memory like it’s paying rent to live there.
I leave my office to clear my head, and then I see her. She’s bent over her desk, reaching for something under the monitor. That skirt. That curve. That tight little breath she lets out when she stretches.
Fuck. It breaks me. I’m walking toward her before I even know I’ve moved. My brain shuts off. Instinct takes over.
She turns just as I approach, surprised. “Harrison,” she says, blinking. “Did you need?—”
“Follow me.”
That’s all I say. And to her credit, she doesn’t ask questions. Just sets down her pen and follows like I’ve flipped a switch in her spine.
I push open the supply closet door at the end of the hall. It’s empty. Dim. Stale with the scent of printer paper and toner. I lock it behind us.
We don’t speak.
My hands are on her before the door clicks shut.
Not rough. Not rushed. Just—hungry. Her mouth meets mine with the kind of urgency that tells me I’m not the only one who’s been thinking about this.
It’s not a question. It’s a confirmation.
The heat between us has been boiling for days, and now it finally breaks loose like a pressure valve exploding.
She tastes like coffee and mint, and something else I can’t name—something that makes me want to drag this out, take my time, learn every damn detail about how she fits against me. But time isn’t on our side.
I press her back against the wall, careful not to slam her into the shelf behind us. One hand finds her hip, the other fists her blouse. She gasps into my mouth, soft and startled and so goddamn sexy I forget how to breathe.
“Are you sure?” I ask, hoarse.
She nods. “Yes. Please.”
Fuck. That’s all I need.
I kiss her again—deeper this time, slower—until she whimpers and clutches my shirt like it’s the only thing holding her up. My thigh slips between hers, and she shifts just enough to grind against me. It’s maddening, the way her body moves like it knows exactly what I need.
I pull her blouse from her skirt, slide my hand underneath, fingertips skating up her spine. Her skin is warm, soft. My palm covers the dip at the base of her back, pressing her to me as I kiss her jaw, her throat, the spot just under her ear that makes her tremble.
She’s so responsive, it drives me insane.
“You’ve been making me crazy,” I mutter against her neck.
“Likewise.” God. Her voice. When she’s aroused, it’s raspy. I fucking love that.
I tug her skirt higher, fingers grazing the lace band of her underwear. Her breath hitches, and I swear I feel it in my chest. She’s already half undone, cheeks flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide.
I slide my hand between her legs. She’s soaked. My self-control snaps.
We don’t have long—someone could come by, someone could knock—but in this moment, nothing matters except the fact that I’m making her fall apart in my arms. She wraps one leg around my hip, and I thrust into her, our bodies flush, her head tipping back against the wall.
I don’t know what hits me first—her heat, her slickness, the fit—and my brain shorts out when I pick her up and her other leg wraps around my hip too.
“I’ve wanted this since the second I saw you at that desk,” I growl.
She moans. “Then shut up and take it.”
I chuckle, low and dark. “Yes, ma’am.”
The rest blurs. Hands. Skin. Her body clenching around my shaft, her hips rocking against me, my name leaving her lips in a breathy curse. She’s so fucking hot like this—messy, wild, no filter. I devour her cries, one after another.
When she comes, it’s with a soft cry muffled into my shoulder.
Her whole body shudders against me, and I hold her through it, breathing hard, heart thudding like I just ran a marathon.
The fading pulse of her orgasm triggers my own, so I shove deep, sealing us together.
The shock of it steals my breath. This happened so fast, nothing like I normally prefer.
But I couldn’t help it. Not when it comes to Parker.
My forehead rests against hers as we both come back to earth.
And then?—
Silence.
Not the bad kind. Just the kind that makes you realize what you’ve done.
What it means. What the fuck it changes.
I step back first, tucking myself in, adjusting my shirt.
She smooths her skirt and pulls her blouse down, cheeks still flushed, lips redder than before.
She doesn’t look ashamed. She doesn’t look scared.
But she doesn’t meet my eyes either. That hurts more than it should.
“I, uh…I should probably?—”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I know.”
She reaches for the doorknob. Hesitates.
“Thank you,” she says, voice soft. “For…that.”
That ?
Christ.
“Anytime,” I manage, because I don’t know what else to say.
She slips out the door and disappears down the hall without looking back. And I just stand there, staring at the spot where she was, wondering what the hell I’ve just done.
I make it back to my office without running into anyone, which is either luck or divine intervention. I shut the door behind me and sink into my chair, elbows on my knees, fingers digging into my hair.
Fucking idiot. You said you wouldn’t. You promised.
Phil told you. Jack warned you a second time. Gavin’s practically iced her out to avoid more temptation and here you are—porking in a fucking supply closet like a high schooler with a new girlfriend.
This isn’t like me. I don’t do messy. I don’t do careless.
I built my career out of saying no. No to risk. No to drama. No to everything that looked like it could crack the perfect shell I spent goddamn years building from nothing. And I just let all of it unravel because she smiled at me and bent over a fucking desk.
God.
My hands are still shaking. It wasn’t just lust. I know that much. It was her. It’s her .
Something about her makes me forget who I am. Where I came from. How hard I’ve worked to be more than the guy who never finished college, who got laughed at in his first pitch meeting, who wore secondhand suits until his third raise.
Around her, I don’t feel like a CFO. I feel like a man. Hungry. Stupid. Raw.
I pull out my phone and stare at it like it might give me answers. I almost text her something dumb. Something like you okay? or did you mean it?
But I don’t.
Instead, I open the budget reports and pretend to read them. I click through emails and ignore every one. I rehearse lines in my head—ways to play this off, clean and casual. But nothing feels clean. Nothing feels casual.
It felt like need. Like something we’d both been starving for. And now I can’t stop thinking about her. How soft her skin was. How sweet she sounded.
The knock on my door startles me.
I sit up straight. “Yeah?”
Jack sticks his head in. “Quick check-in on the gala budget?”
“Yeah. Come in.”
He walks in and shuts the door behind him. Raises an eyebrow. “You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”
“Just tired.”
Jack nods like he doesn’t believe me, but doesn’t push. We talk numbers for ten minutes. He signs off on the adjusted projections. Then he stands, stretches, and gives me a look. “By the way…Parker.”
My chest tightens. “What about her?”
“She’s been doing good work.”
“Yeah.”
“She’s also been catching a lot of stares.”
I don’t reply.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Gavin’s doing his best to stay removed. I get it. Phil’s watching like a hawk. I get that too.”
I rub the back of my neck. “You have a point?”
Jack’s voice is quiet. Calm. Too calm. “If we’re going to be smart about this, we need to stay on the same page.”
I meet his eyes. “You think this is about loyalty?”
“I think it’s about consequences and our other best friend.”
I nod once. “Understood.”
Jack leaves without saying anything else.
I sit there alone, knowing full well the consequences have already started. And I walked straight into them anyway.