6. Evander
Evander
I barely slept last night, my mind racing with thoughts of Mireille. The image of her sprawled on the office floor, cradling her injured arm, keeps replaying in my head. The fear I felt in that moment was... unexpected. Intense.
I've never been one to form close attachments to my employees. I've always believed in maintaining a professional distance. But with Mireille, that distance seems to be shrinking day by day.
As I drive to the office, earlier than usual, I can't shake the memory of standing at her apartment door last night.
For a moment, I had let my guard down, admitted that I cared for her as more than just an employee.
The look in her eyes... I think she was about to say something important. And I ran. Like a coward.
I shake my head, trying to clear these thoughts as I park my car. I need to focus. I have a company to run, after all.
The office is quiet when I arrive, most of the staff are not due for another hour. I make my way to my office, already planning out my day. With Mireille out, I'll need to rearrange some meetings, maybe get a temp assistant to help with?—
I stop short as I round the corner to my office. There, sitting at her desk as if it's any other day, is Mireille.
She looks up as I approach, a sheepish smile on her face. "Good morning, Evander."
For a moment, I'm too stunned to speak. Then, "Mireille, what are you doing here? I told you to take the day off."
She shrugs, wincing slightly at the movement. "I know, but I couldn't just sit at home doing nothing. And I'm a terrible patient, ask anyone who knows me. I figured I could at least come in and get some work done."
I frown, taking in her appearance. She looks tired, dark circles under her eyes barely concealed by makeup. Her injured arm is cradled carefully in her lap, the compression bandage clear to see.
"Mireille," I say, my voice softer than I intended. "You need to rest. Your health is more important than any work that needs to be done here."
She looks up at me, her green eyes filled with a mixture of stubbornness and something else I can't quite identify. "I know, but I... I just didn't want to be alone with my thoughts today."
Her honesty catches me off guard. Before I can stop myself, I'm moving closer, perching on the edge of her desk. "What thoughts?"
Mireille bites her lip, a gesture I find inexplicably distracting. "Just... everything that happened yesterday. The accident, the hospital..." she pauses, her eyes meeting mine, "...what you said at my apartment."
I feel my heart rate pick up. "Mireille, I..." I trail off, unsure how to respond. Part of me wants to brush it off, to retreat behind my professional facade. But another part, a part that's growing stronger by the day, wants to be honest with her.
"I meant what I said," I finally manage, my voice low. "I do care about you, Mireille. More than I should, perhaps."
Her eyes widen slightly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "Evander, I?—"
But before she can finish, the elevator dings, announcing the arrival of my first client for the day. I straighten up quickly, putting some distance between us.
"We should talk about this later," I say, my voice returning to its usual businesslike tone. "For now, if you insist on staying, please take it easy. No heavy lifting, and if your arm starts bothering you, I want you to go home immediately. Understood?"
Mireille nods, a mix of emotions flashing across her face. "Understood. Thank you, Evander."
I give her a curt nod before retreating to my office, my heart pounding in my chest. What am I doing? This is dangerous territory we're treading into. I'm her boss, for God's sake. I can't be having these feelings for her.
But as I settle at my desk, I can't help but glance out at Mireille through the glass walls of my office.
She's typing away one-handed, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Even injured and clearly tired, she's still here, still working hard.
Her dedication is just one of the many things I admire about her.
I force myself to look away, focusing on my computer screen. I have work to do, a company to run. I can't afford to be distracted by my feelings for Mireille, no matter how strong they might be.
But as the day wears on, I find my eyes constantly drawn to her. Every time she winces or shifts uncomfortably, I have to resist the urge to go out there and send her home. When lunchtime rolls around, I watch as she struggles to open her salad container one-handed.
Before I can think better of it, I'm out of my chair and striding towards her desk.
"Come on," I say, causing her to look up in surprise. "We're going to lunch."
Mireille blinks at me, clearly caught off guard. "We are?"
I nod, already helping her out of her chair. "Yes. You need a proper meal, and I... Well, I could use a break from the office."
She studies me for a moment, then nods. "Okay. Where are we going?"
"I know a place," I say, guiding her towards the elevator with a gentle hand on her lower back. "Trust me."
As we ride down in the elevator, I can feel the tension between us, it’s like a spark, ready to ignite at any moment.
We arrive at the Big Chowder restaurant just a few blocks from the office. It's quiet and discreet, perfect for a business lunch—or for a conversation I'm not entirely sure I'm ready to have.
As we're seated at a secluded corner table, I can't help but notice how beautiful Mireille looks, even with her arm in a bandage and dark circles under her eyes. She's studying the menu intently; her brow furrowed in concentration.
"Order whatever you'd like," I tell her. "It's on me."
She looks up, surprise evident in her green eyes. "Evander, you don't have to-"
I wave off her protest. "I want to. Consider it a thank you. For your dedication."
Mireille smiles softly, a sight that makes my heart skip a beat. "Well, in that case, I might just have to order the most expensive thing on the menu."
I can't help but chuckle. "By all means."
We place our orders—a Caesar salad for me, and the lobster risotto for Mireille. As we wait for our food, an awkward silence falls between us. There's so much I want to say, but I'm not sure how to begin.
Finally, Mireille breaks the silence. "So... about what you said earlier, about caring about me more than you should."
I feel my body tense. This is it. The conversation I've been both dreading and longing for. "Yes?"
She takes a deep breath, her eyes meeting mine. "I feel the same way, Evander. I care about you too. More than I should, given our professional relationship."
"Mireille," I begin, my voice low, "you have to understand. This... whatever this is between us. It's complicated. I'm your boss. There are rules, ethics to consider."
She nods, her expression serious. "I know. Believe me, I've thought about all of that.”
The waiter comes with our lunch interrupting our conversation which I’m grateful for, right now, this conversation can’t happen. Not now, probably not ever. I can’t blur the lines between professional and personal. I value Mireille too much as an assistant and friend.
As we begin eating our meals, I try to steer the conversation to safer topics. "How is your arm feeling today?" I ask, nodding towards her bandaged wrist.
Mireille glances down at it. "It's a bit sore, but not too bad. The doctor said it should heal in a few weeks."
I nod, feeling a pang of guilt. "I'm sorry you got hurt. Perhaps we should look into some safety improvements around the office."
She laughs softly. "Evander, no amount of safety measures can protect against my clumsiness. It's just who I am."
I can't help but smile. "Well, clumsy or not, you're still the best assistant I've ever had."
A light blush colors her cheeks at the compliment. "Thank you. That means a lot coming from you."
We eat in silence for a few moments before Mireille speaks again. "So, about the kite flying event this weekend. Are you still up for it?"
I groan internally, having almost forgotten about that commitment. "I suppose I did agree to it, didn't I?"
Mireille grins. "You did. No backing out now, Mr. Prescott."
"I wouldn't dream of it," I reply dryly. "Though I'm not sure how well we'll do with your injury."
She waves her good hand dismissively. "Oh, I'm sure we'll manage. After all, we make a pretty good team, don't we?"
Her words hang in the air between us, loaded with meaning. Yes, we do make a good team—perhaps too good. That's part of what makes this situation so complicated.
"Mireille," I begin, my tone serious. "About what we were discussing earlier..."
She looks at me expectantly, hope shining in her eyes. It takes every ounce of willpower I have to continue.
"We can't pursue this. Whatever it is between us, has to remain professional. I'm your boss and crossing that line would be inappropriate."
I watch as the light dims in her eyes, replaced by a mixture of hurt and resignation. "I understand," she says softly. "You're right, of course. It was foolish of me to think otherwise."
Her words cut deeper than I expected. Part of me wants to take it all back, to tell her that I don't care about professional boundaries. But I know I can't. I have a responsibility—to my company, to my employees, and to Mireille herself.
"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it more than she could ever know.
Mireille nods, forcing a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "It's okay. Really. I appreciate your honesty."
The rest of the meal passes in awkward silence.
As we walk back to the office, I can feel the distance between us growing with every step.
It's for the best, I tell myself, but deep down I know that’s not true.
I want her unlike I’ve ever wanted anyone before her.
Keeping the professional boundary up between us is hard and I have a feeling it’s only going to get harder.