Chapter 4 Elizabeth
ELIZABETH
I’m beginning my new role tomorrow, if I can just get through tonight.
Sunday dinner. The Morgan family circus.
The table is already set when I walk in, and my mother is elbow-deep in mashed potatoes like she’s sculpting Mount Rushmore.
My dad is glued to the sports channel in the living room, pretending he doesn’t hear her calling for help.
My grandmother sits at the head, smiling faintly, more interested in the butter dish than the rest of us.
I take a deep breath and announce it the second I step inside, because if I wait even five minutes Karl will steal the spotlight. “I got promoted. I’m going to be Jonathan Clark’s assistant starting tomorrow.”
“Congratulations, honey,” my mother says, distracted, giving the potatoes one last violent stir. My father appears in the doorway, nods once, already craning his neck back toward the TV. Grandma perks up only long enough to ask if there’s gravy.
Then Karl saunters in with his latest arm candy, a tall brunette whose skirt could double as a belt. “Everyone, this is Tiffany. She’s studying communications, and she’s a model part-time.”
Of course she is.
Dad beams, clapping Karl on the shoulder like he just brought home a Nobel Prize. Mom flutters around Tiffany, asking if she likes green beans or corn better. Even Grandma raises an eyebrow, interested.
I shovel a forkful of casserole onto my plate, biting my tongue. Tiffany isn’t rude, exactly—just blissfully unaware she’s been parachuted into a competition I’ve never won. She giggles at Karl’s stories, which all conveniently end with him being the hero on a construction site.
The more they laugh, the more invisible I feel.
I sip my water, smile when spoken to, and remind myself that tomorrow is mine. Jonathan Clark said my name, looked me dead in the eye, and offered me the chance I’ve been killing myself for.
My family may not hear it now, but one day they’ll have to.
Dinner ends with Dad raising his glass to Karl, telling him he’s proud. My mother slips me a smile across the table, soft and tired, like she knows how hollow the night feels for me. It’s enough to keep me from breaking.
Back at my apartment, Dani is out, so I fall into bed alone. Sleep refuses to come. Every time I close my eyes, I see Jonathan at the head of that table, his gaze steady on me, the weight of his voice in my ears.
What if he changes his mind? What if I stumble on day one? What if I disappoint him? By the time the alarm rings, I feel like I haven’t slept at all.
Monday morning has come far too quickly. Snow crunches under my boots as I make my way to the office, my body heavy with nerves and too little rest. I hang my coat on the rack, pour myself coffee, and square my shoulders before heading toward his closed office door.
The place feels gutted, only a skeleton crew left, which makes every sound echo sharper than usual.
And of course, Sherry Wilson is there, watching me like a cat with fresh prey as I walk toward Jonathan’s door.
We’d barely exchanged more than polite hellos before, but today Sherry has her eyes locked on me like I just stole her parking spot.
Every step toward Jonathan’s office feels like walking under a heat lamp. I keep my chin high, pretending not to notice the daggers, but the back of my neck prickles all the same. I’ve never given her a reason to dislike me—unless existing counts.
Jonathan’s voice filters through the heavy wooden door, low and clipped, clearly mid-call. My nerves tangle tighter. I pause, reading the neat black lettering on the gold plaque screwed into the door: Jonathan Clark, CEO/President.
The words seem to weigh more than they should. I breathe out, rap my knuckles against the wood, and tell myself that being early is better than being late.
“Come in!” His voice booms, and it’s edged with a roughness that makes my heart skip a beat.
I twist the knob, step inside, and the world shifts. He’s behind his desk, phone sliding back into its cradle, eyes on me as if I’m the next fire to put out.
The sight of him knocks me sideways—salt-and-pepper hair just slightly unruly, blue eyes sharp but shadowed by dark circles. He looks like he wrestled the weekend and lost.
“Good morning, sir,” I manage, my voice soft. My nerves trip over themselves as I search his face for a hint of the man who smiled at me Friday. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
He waves it off, leaning back in his chair. “Not at all. Just another company pulling the rug out from under me. The holiday season is a gift that keeps on giving.” His voice drips with fatigue, and I can almost see the weight pressing down on his broad shoulders.
I set the extra coffee cup I’d carried in onto his desk, nudging it closer. “Seems like you need this way more than I do, sir.”
His brow arches, interest sparking even through the exhaustion. For the first time this morning, his eyes really focus on me.
“Please, call me Jon,” he says, lifting the cup and taking a long swallow. His shoulders loosen, the hard lines of his face easing as he exhales.
When his eyes meet mine again, there’s a flicker of warmth I wasn’t ready for. “Thank you. I haven’t slept much the last few days.”
And because my mouth has zero filter under pressure, I blurt, “Oh, same. Me and insomnia are basically dating at this point.”
The second the words leave me, my brain screams why would you say that to your boss, but it’s too late. My cheeks heat, and I want to kick myself under the table.
To my surprise, the corner of his mouth lifts, almost a laugh, and the tension in the room shifts. He gestures toward the chair opposite his desk. “Then you’ll know how valuable this coffee is.”
I slide into the seat, trying to look composed while butterflies riot in my stomach. He closes the folder in front of him and sets it aside, giving me his full attention. It’s unnerving and magnetic all at once.
This man—this maddening, silver-haired bachelor—is supposed to be stone-faced, untouchable. Yet here he is, sipping coffee like it’s the first real pleasure he’s had all week, eyes locked on me as if I’m next.
“So, Miss Morgan,” he begins, fingers threading together on the desk.
“Please, call me Elizabeth, or Lizzy. Everyone else does.”
“With a smile, he continues. “Tell me about yourself, Lizzy.”
The way my name rolls off his tongue makes something low in my belly clench. It isn’t casual or polite. Instead, it’s like he’s tasting me with his voice.
I try to breathe normally, try to pretend the burn of his eyes isn’t already sliding down my skin like a hot hand. “And not work stuff,” he adds, leaning back in his chair with that dangerous ease. “Tell me about the real Lizzy outside of these dull walls.”
For a moment, I can’t think of a single thing about myself that doesn’t sound ridiculous.
When I finally manage to open my mouth, it all tumbles out too quickly.
“Well, I grew up in a small town outside the city, moved here, tried marketing but hated the people, bounced through a few other jobs, and then… landed here.”
“Marketing, hm?” His smile curves like a blade. “Their loss.”
The compliment is light, but his eyes are not. They are scorching, pinning me where I sit, as if he’s stripping away every safe layer and looking for the parts of me I keep locked.
I clear my throat and force a laugh. “I live with my best friend, Dani. She’s a character. We’ve been attached at the hip since school. She once—” I launch into a story, words tripping over themselves because it’s easier than focusing on the weight of his stare.
Still, every time he chuckles, every time his attention sharpens, I feel my pulse drag lower, hotter.
He’s not just listening. He’s watching.
Watching my lips, my throat, the way I shift in my chair. And every inch of me feels claimed.
I tell him about my brother, Karl, and his devious streak, and Jon’s expression darkens with amusement. “Little brothers,” he mutters, but he doesn’t look away from me. Not once.
It’s dizzying, this sudden intensity. Like I’m the only woman alive. Like he could push his chair back, curl a finger, and I’d cross the desk to him without thinking.
“Someone as impressive as you,” I blurt, cheeks hot, “wanting to know me—it’s… hard to believe.”
His jaw tightens, and the smile that flickers across his mouth is far too wolfish for comfort. “Oh, Lizzy. You have no idea how easy you are to want.”
My breath catches, the room too small, too warm. He smooths a hand down his tie, like he’s restraining himself, and his voice comes out rougher when he adds, “Now tell me more. I want everything.”
The conversation drags us straight through the daylight. One second, the city hum is bright beyond his windows; the next, it’s dusk, the sky bruised purple, the office sinking into quiet.
Jon leans back, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes cutting toward the glowing screen. “Well, this was… entertaining. But we’ve done nothing useful. I’ll stay late and clean up. You should head home. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”
I rise, but something inside me balks. Walking away feels like abandoning him, like letting the moment dissolve. I lower myself back down, steady. “No. Today was both of us. I’ll stay. You can show me what I need to learn.”
His eyes catch mine and for a second, the refusal on his lips dies there. Instead, the faintest grin tugs at his mouth.
A look that says he’s not used to being told no, but he likes it.
The office empties, footsteps fading until it’s just the two of us cocooned in silence. The kind of silence that presses against the skin, thick and expectant. “This is strange,” I murmur. “I’ve never heard the place so quiet. It’s almost… unsettling.”
“I know,” he says, voice low. “I stay late for that reason. No interruptions. Just me, the work, and the dark.”
His words curl around me like smoke, and when he adds, “Bring your chair closer,” it’s not a suggestion, it’s a pull.
My hands tighten on the backrest, dragging the chair beside him. I’m close enough that his heat brushes mine, close enough that I catch the faint musk of his cologne, expensive and dangerous. My pulse stutters.
He opens a file, words leaving his lips in that smooth, commanding tone, pointing at the screen as if this is simply training.
But I can’t hear a damn thing. Not really.
Because every breath he exhales drifts across my cheek. Every flick of his wrist, every shift of his thigh against the leather seat, coils tighter inside me.
And when his arm brushes mine by accident—or maybe not—I almost forget how to breathe.
Suddenly, I wish that his smell would linger on me. I fight these thoughts, needing myself to focus. I can’t screw this job up when it’s been what I wanted for a year now. Focus, Lizzy … Focus.
It’s an impossible task because I can’t seem to focus on anything else but how close I am to him.
“Now that we covered stuff on the computer, here are some older contracts that have gone over well with the clients.” He spins around and digs through his filing cabinet, pulling out a stack of papers and plopping them onto the desk.
“I know it seems like a lot, but you can handle it. You’re smart and seem to have a great head on your shoulders. ”
My eyes drop down to the desk, and suddenly, I feel like a schoolgirl with my crush. It’s ridiculous because I’m an adult and should be able to handle a compliment, but there’s something different about Jon Clark.
“Thank you.” My smile is wide, and I start flipping through the papers. He was right about one thing: I can handle it because I’ve proofread a million of these and know I can do this job correctly.
People often underestimate how much work I truly do around here. They assume I answer phone calls and look pretty all day. I dedicate my time wisely, going around and helping the other assistants when they are stuck on something.
Other than a small amount of finer details, I’m fully capable of doing this job even without training.
But spending alone time with Jon isn’t the worst thing in the world, so I’ll keep my mouth shut about already knowing the job.
“Oh, here. I’ll underline a few things that are crucial for our files.” He pulls a pen from his drawer, but it slips through his fingers, clattering to the floor.
We both reach down at the same time. My hand brushes his, heat sparking like a live wire. Our faces are suddenly inches apart, our noses nearly colliding. My breath stutters, my chest tight, my pulse screaming in my ears.
I look up. Straight into his eyes. And God, they’re molten. Blue and sharp, but burning like they’ve been waiting for me.
He doesn’t move right away, and neither do I. It’s like the world holds its breath with us.
Then, his gaze drops to my mouth, and something inside me snaps. Or maybe it’s him. Because in the next second, his hand curls around the back of my neck and he crushes his mouth to mine.
It isn’t polite. It isn’t careful. His lips part mine, his tongue sliding in deep, demanding, ruthless. My knees nearly give out as the taste of him floods me—coffee, heat, the kind of hunger that makes a woman forget her own damn name.
A whimper escapes my throat, traitorous and needy, and he swallows it whole, angling my head so he can kiss me harder, deeper, like he wants to consume every last bit of me. My fingers clutch his shirt, anchoring myself to him, because this isn’t some boy fumbling in the dark.
This is a man. A man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
By the time he finally drags his mouth from mine, I’m shaking, breathless, lips swollen, my heart sprinting so fast it hurts.
His thumb brushes my lower lip, as if claiming the mess he made, his voice rough and low when he mutters, “Now that was inevitable.”