Sexting the Boss (Forbidden Silver Foxes)

1. Sasha

1

SASHA

The elevator doors are closing, and I have exactly two seconds to make a decision:

Accept defeat and wait for the next one like a normal, civilized human being.

Channel my inner action hero and go for it.

Naturally, I choose violence.

With a coffee cup in one hand and my tote bag slipping off my shoulder, I lunge forward, shoving my free hand between the closing doors.

The elevator jerks open in protest. My sensible flats skid against the polished marble as I stumble in, barely keeping my coffee from sloshing over the rim. I mutter a breathless “Jesus,” push a strand of hair out of my face, and straighten my blazer.

And that’s when I feel it.

The air in the elevator is different, thicker somehow. Not the usual awkward silence of standing next to strangers, but something charged, like a static current buzzing just beneath the surface.

I glance up?—

And everything inside me comes to a screeching halt.

He’s tall, at least a head taller than me, dressed in an impeccable black three-piece suit that fits his broad frame like it was made for him. His white dress shirt is crisp, unbuttoned just enough at the collar to hint at something indecently attractive beneath.

But it’s his face that makes my stomach drop.

His features are chiseled, but not in a boyish, pretty way—more like something sculpted from stone.

The kind of handsome that comes with age, the kind that makes twenty-something guys look like awkward teenagers in comparison. He has a strong jaw, the barest hint of scruff, and salt-and-pepper hair that only adds to the unfair level of attractiveness.

And his eyes?

Cold. Glacial gray.

They flick over me, assessing, measuring, and I feel it everywhere—like an unseen hand trailing down my spine.

Oh.

Oh no.

Breathe, Sasha, breathe.

I should look away. I should pretend like I didn’t just ogle a stranger in an elevator, but my brain is actively refusing to function. My heart stutters in my chest, heat prickles up my neck, and the moment stretches too long—like he’s waiting for me to say something.

His expression is unreadable, but there’s something intensely watchful about it, like he sees things other people don’t. Like he sees me, even though I’m just a nobody rushing to my low-level job.

Beside him, a massive bald man in a suit stands with his hands clasped in front of him, watching the exchange with silent disapproval. He’s the kind of guy you do not mess with, and for the first time since entering the elevator, I realize?—

I might’ve just walked into the wrong place.

A normal person would probably apologize. Step out. Act normal.

But no. I clear my throat, grip my coffee like it’s a damn life raft, and blurt out, “This isn’t a staff-only elevator, right?”

The man’s lips—full, ridiculously well-shaped lips that should not be the focus of my attention right now—twitch, just barely. Not a smile. Not even amusement. More like…intrigue.

A slow, deliberate flick of his gaze. First to my coffee. Then to my face.

Then silence.

The elevator dings.

The doors slide open to reveal a floor that looks nothing like the one I work on—sleek glass walls, plush leather seating, a reception desk that probably costs more than my rent.

The man steps out first, his polished shoes soundless against the floor. But just before he disappears, he pauses—just a fraction—then murmurs, low and effortless, “You should be more careful where you go, printsessa .”

Then he’s gone.

The doors close, leaving me standing in the now-empty elevator, heart pounding, skin flushed, coffee still clutched way too tight in my hands. My reflection stares back at me from the mirrored wall. Wide eyes, parted lips, completely rattled.

What…just happened?

Who the hell was that?

My pulse is still thrumming in my ears when I realize?—

This is not my floor.

This isn’t even remotely close to my floor.

I stand frozen, clutching my coffee as it finally dawns on me—I’m on the top floor.

The executive level.

Oh my God.

I can feel the weight of curious, mildly judgmental stares from people who are definitely making mental notes to report me to security. My throat tightens, and I do the only thing I can.

I slam the “close doors” button like my life depends on it.

The doors glide shut, and I let out a breath and lean back against the cool elevator wall, mortified. I just made a complete fool of myself in front of—whoever that man was. A high-level exec? A board member? Maybe the CFO?

And he called me printsessa .

The way he said it, low and smooth, lingers in my head in a way I do not appreciate.

I groan, knocking my head lightly against the mirrored wall behind me. This is why I should not be allowed in corporate spaces.

The elevator glides down, stopping at the ground floor, and I slip out as casually as possible, just in case anyone important is watching. Then I make my way across the lobby to a much more reasonable elevator—the one that takes underpaid employees like me to our designated corporate dungeon.

This time, when I step in, the only other person inside is Ryan Calloway.

Ryan, blessed with actual optimism and an annoyingly nice face, is the kind of guy who makes the office less soul-sucking. He’s dressed in the standard office casual, a button-up rolled at the sleeves, hair still a little damp like he just came from the gym.

He grins when he sees me. “Morning, Caldwell.”

I exhale and shake my head. “You will not believe what just happened to me.”

Ryan arches a brow, leaning against the elevator wall. “Oh, this sounds promising.”

I step in beside him, still gripping my coffee like it’s holding my last shred of dignity. “I just…somehow ended up on the top floor.”

His brows shoot up. “The top floor?”

“The one with real leather chairs and an actual receptionist,” I say, nodding. “I walked right in. Stood there. Made direct eye contact with very important-looking people while dressed like a peasant.”

Ryan whistles low. “Damn. How’d you even get up there?”

I groan, rubbing a hand down my face. “I was running late and jumped into an elevator without looking. There were two guys in there. One looked like a professional assassin, and the other…”

I hesitate. Because saying, “was the most absurdly gorgeous, intimidating man I’ve ever seen in real life” doesn’t feel professional.

Ryan smirks, catching the pause. “And the other?”

I scowl. “Was probably an executive. And he just stared at me. The whole time. Like I was a lost intern who somehow wandered into a presidential briefing.”

Ryan laughs. “You’re sure he wasn’t just checking you out?”

I scoff. “Ryan. This man was wearing a three-piece suit that was probably hand-sewn by the ghost of Versace himself. He had that whole silent, dangerously rich, exudes power for no reason thing going on.”

Ryan tilts his head. “So…exactly your type?”

I smack his arm. “I hate you.”

He laughs again as the elevator dings and opens onto our floor—the land of stale coffee, fluorescent lighting, and exactly zero silver foxes who would put Adonis to shame.

I sigh, stepping out. “Anyway, no clue who he was, but he called me printsessa before leaving.”

Ryan follows behind me, amused. “Did you just get nicknamed by an executive? That sounds like workplace favoritism. You should definitely use that to get a raise.”

“Oh, sure,” I deadpan. “Next time I see him, I’ll just be like, ‘Hey, remember when I embarrassed myself in front of you? Can I get a salary bump for that?’”

Ryan snickers. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Not to me,” I mutter.

We’re barely out of the elevator when we run into Brittany. She’s effortlessly put together, dressed in the kind of outfit that screams money. I’m not even sure what she’s doing here. Her honey-blonde hair is curled to perfection, her makeup is flawless, and she moves like she owns the office, which—let’s be honest—she kind of does, in a social hierarchy kind of way.

The moment she spots Ryan, her whole face lights up and she practically launches herself at him. “Ryan!” she squeals, throwing her arms around his neck in a dramatic hug.

I take a small step back, suddenly feeling like an unpaid extra in a rom-com I didn’t sign up for.

Ryan chuckles, hugging her back. “Hey, Britt.”

She pulls away just enough to bat her lashes at him. “You’re still coming tonight, right? You better be coming.”

Ryan rubs the back of his neck, his eyes flicking to me briefly before nodding. “Yeah, of course. Wouldn’t miss it.”

Brittany grins, reaching up to adjust his collar like they’re starring in a Hallmark Christmas special. “Good. It wouldn’t be a party without you.”

I stay quiet, shifting my coffee cup from one hand to the other, waiting for the moment to naturally end so I don’t have to be the awkward third wheel who interrupts a moment.

The thing is, I actually like Brittany.

She’s always been nice to me—smiley, complimentary, effortlessly social. But there’s something about the way she never quite makes eye contact when she compliments me, or the way her tone feels just a little too sweet when she says, “Oh my God, that blazer is so cute!” that keeps me on edge.

Like she’s keeping score, and I have no idea what game we’re playing.

Ryan, blissfully unaware of the passive-aggressive social warfare happening right now, turns to me. “Hey, you should come too.”

I blink. “To what?”

“The party,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Britt’s throwing it at her place. Big thing. Food, drinks, decent music if she doesn’t let her cousin DJ again.” He shoots her a smirk, and she playfully shoves his arm in response.

I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to go—I could actually use a night of fun—but because Brittany is looking at me now, and I can’t read her expression.

“Oh, yeah,” she says, tone light. “You should totally come. Though I must warn you that Ryan is making it out to be a bigger deal than it actually is. It’s just dinner at my place with a few people from the office.”

It’s not an enthusiastic invite.

It’s the kind of invite people give when they don’t expect you to say yes.

I glance at Ryan, who’s waiting for an answer, then back at Brittany, whose smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Maybe I should say no. Maybe I should save myself from an inevitable night of standing awkwardly in a corner, sipping a warm drink, trying to pretend I belong in their social circle.

But then I remember how truly boring my life has been lately.

And more importantly, I remember that I have nothing better to do.

I force a grin. “Yeah. Sounds fun.”

Ryan beams. “Awesome.”

Brittany’s smile stays perfectly intact, but for a split second, I swear I see something tighten in her expression before she turns back to Ryan and loops her arm through his.

“Well, don’t be late,” she tells him, dragging him away toward the breakroom.

I stand there, coffee in hand, watching them go.

And I can’t shake the feeling that Brittany really didn’t want me to say yes.