Chapter One
Mila
I trip over the curb outside the office building. I lurch forward with a stifled scream, my hands desperately in the air. I manage to catch myself just before I facepalm on the hard concrete sidewalk. I take a few seconds to catch my breath and regulate my heartbeat.
I can’t believe I nearly died before making it inside on the first day of my new job.
That feels like an omen.
I risk a glance around and it seems like no one is paying me any attention. Everyone looks like they’re in a hurry to get somewhere—too busy to pay attention to some random clumsy girl on the curb.
Good. At least, I don’t have to die of embarrassment. I straighten my skirt and smooth my blouse, taking a deep shaky breath.
Don’t mess this up, Mila
The building is tall, made of steel and glass and intimidating in a way that makes my chest tighten. Popov Shipping Group is etched into the front in clean, bold letters.
My Papaw’s voice echoes in my head; Just show up on time, work hard, and keep your head up.
I’ve done the first part. The rest…we’ll see.
Inside, the lobby is all marble floors and quiet power. The receptionist barely glances up as I approach, which somehow makes me more nervous than if she’d stared.
“Mila Voronin?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “I’m here for my first day.”
She smiles politely, taps something into her computer, then picks up the phone. “Mr. Abrams? She’s here.” She drops the phone and points at the row of chairs in the opposite direction. “Have a seat over there.”
I perch on the edge of a chair, hands folded in my lap, trying not to fidget. A minute later, a man appears from the hallway to the right.
He’s middle-aged with thinning hair slicked back too neatly, wire-frame glasses, expression already bored. His suit looks expensive but worn, like he’s been doing this job too long and resents it.
“Voronin,” he says. Not a question.
“Yes,” I reply, popping up. “That’s me. Mila.”
He glances at his watch. “Follow me.”
No handshake. No welcome.
“I’m Howard Abrams. Human Resources,” he adds over his shoulder as he starts walking.
I scramble to keep up.
He moves briskly, like he expects me to fall behind and doesn’t much care if I do. As we pass through security and into the main office area, he speaks in clipped sentences, eyes forward.
“You were recommended by your grandfather,” he says. “He’s an old friend of our general manager.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“Mm,” he hums, noncommittal. “That explains the placement.”
The words make my stomach dip.
We stop at a desk positioned outside a large office with frosted glass walls. It looks imposing and closed off.
“This is your desk,” Howard says, gesturing vaguely. “You’ll be working here.”
I look around. The desk is pristine, almost sterile. No personal items. No room for mistakes.
“And this,” he adds, pointing to the office behind me, “is the CEO’s office.”
My breath stutters. “The CEO?”
He finally looks at me then, brows lifting slightly. “Is that an issue?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I just…I didn’t realize I’d be assigned directly to—”
“You’re his assistant,” Howard cuts in. “That’s the role you accepted.”
My pulse picks up. “I tried to look him up beforehand, but there wasn’t much information.”
“There isn’t supposed to be,” he says flatly. “Mr. Popov values privacy.”
There’s something in his tone when he says the name. Respect. Caution. Maybe even irritation.
“Oh,” I say again.
“He arrives around nine,” Howard continues. “He expects punctuality, accuracy, and discretion. He doesn’t appreciate unnecessary chatter or excuses.”
I nod, my throat tight. “Of course.”
He hands me a file folder. “This is your onboarding checklist. IT setup, badge, security briefing, required reading. Complete as much as you can before he arrives.”
I glance at the clock on the computer.
Eight-twenty.
“Yes, sir.”
Howard watches me for a beat, eyes flicking over me like he’s cataloging weaknesses. “This is a demanding position,” he says. “Not everyone is suited for it.”
The implication hangs there.
“I work hard,” I say quietly.
“We’ll see,” he replies.
He gives me a cursory tour, pointing things out without slowing down, correcting me when I step slightly too close to a restricted door. By the time we’re back at my desk, my nerves feel frayed.
He pauses, looks at the closed door of the CEO’s office, then back at me. “Don’t touch anything in there unless instructed,” he says. “And don’t assume familiarity. Mr. Popov prefers professional distance.”
“Yes sir,” I say.
He gives me a solemn nod and walks away without another word.
I sit down slowly, exhaling only once he’s gone. The office suddenly feels heavier.
I open the checklist and begin working through it carefully, double-checking every step. I don’t rush. I can’t afford to make any mistakes here. Again.
I’ve lost count of how many positions I’ve left behind because of accidents, misunderstandings, moments where my body moved faster than my brain. Grandpa says I’m not careless, just…uncoordinated, but I think that’s just him putting it nicely.
I am clumsy as hell.
And the thought of losing another job due to my clumsiness makes my chest tighten with a familiar feeling of anxiety and I can feel the words on paper blotching up.
Breathe, Mila—you’ve got this.
I glance at the clock again.
8:52.
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
Oh no.
Mr. Popov’s coffee order is listed right there in bold, underlined letters on the checklist. ON DESK BEFORE 9:00 A.M.
I jump out of my chair in a panic and run to the kitchen Howard pointed out to me earlier. I grab a clean mug and quickly work the coffee machine while mumbling a jumbled prayer of mercy under my breath.
What are the chances of the CEO getting delayed by aliens from Pluto? Probably zero.
I grab the coffee mug and hurry down the hallway back to the office. My hand is trembling badly but I hold on to the mug like it’s my lifeline.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “You’ve got this. Just walk. Don’t rush. Rushing is how things go wrong.”
Easier said than done.
My heel clips the corner of the carpet just as I turn, and before I can catch myself, I collide with something—scratch that—someone hard.
A dangerously, mouth-wateringly, blue-eyed devilishly handsome man. . .
Everything happens in the blink of an eye. . .
The coffee flies out of my hand. The man lets out a sharp, startled yell that I admit is undeniably deep and masculine—even in the chaos. I watch in horror as hot liquid splashes across his crisply-ironed white dress shirt.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, horror flooding me.
The man reacts instantly, his hands flying to his shirt as he rips it open, pulling the fabric away from his skin with controlled urgency while I gape at him with open-mouthed awe.
He is frigging handsome—devastatingly so, in fact.
He’s the kind of man you’d see on the front cover of exotic magazines about business magnates—tall frame, broad shoulders, dark brown, neatly cut hair and a strong, wicked jaw. The kind of man that easily steals your breath away.
His chest is flushed from the heat, muscles flexing as he assesses the damage. He suddenly looks up, his eyes clashing with mine.
“A picture would last longer, you know,” he says, his mouth tilting ever-so-slightly around the corners. There’s something about his eyes, the way they stay on mine, stern and assessing.
“I—I’m so sorry,” I stammer, mortification flooding my veins. “You could be burned. You need cold water. Come on—” I start, turning toward the restroom.
“I’m fine,” he says calmly, but that somehow makes everything worse.
Without thinking, I grab his arm and tug him toward the restroom. I usher him inside and guide him to the sink, my hands trembling as I grab a cloth, then abandon it for paper towels, then go back to the cloth again.
“I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to do that,” I say, my words tumbling over each other as I dab furiously at his chest. “This is my first day and I just—I get nervous and then I rush and then things happen, and I promise I’m not normally a walking hazard. Well, actually, that’s not really true—”
My fingers suddenly make contact with his skin and it dawns on me—I have my hands all over a half-naked stranger on my first day of work. In the WOMEN’S bathroom.
How on earth did I get here?
I snatch my hand back, heat rushing to my cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” I blurt, letting my hand drop to my side in defeat.
“What for?”
I blink at him in surprise, dazed and mentally grappling for something meaningful to say. “F-for spilling coffee on you. For dragging you in here. It’s probably your first day of work too and I ruined it for you.
He laughs and my breath ceases. It’s not exactly the deep rumbling sound of his laughter—it’s the magnetism of it.
“You think I’m new?” he asks, his voice pulling out of the daze.
“You’re not?”
Before he can respond, the door opens behind us and a pretty blond woman in killer heels walks in. She freezes in shock, looking from me to the man.
“Mr. Popov?”
Everything inside me goes cold.
Mr. Popov? As in, the Mr. Popov?
My boss?