Chapter 4
Chapter four
~DONOVAN~
"You look like someone killed your dog."
I glance up from my laptop to find my executive assistant Margaret standing in my office doorway, arms crossed.
"I don't have a dog," I say flatly.
"Then you look like someone killed a dog you were considering getting." She walks in without invitation—a privilege earned for over fifteen years as my executive assistant—and sets a coffee on my desk. "Decaf. Because you've already had four cups this morning and your left eye is twitching."
"My eye is not—" I blink, realizing she's right. "It's the quarterly projections. The numbers are off."
"The numbers are perfect. You're just looking for problems because that's what you do when you're stressed." She settles into the chair across from me, which means this is going to be a conversation I can't escape. "What's really going on?"
"Nothing's going on. I'm preparing for tonight's reception."
"The reception that you've hosted a dozen times before without breaking a sweat?" Margaret's eyebrow arches. "Try again."
I close my laptop. “I’m fine, Margaret."
"You've been 'fine' for three weeks now. Ever since you came back from Miami." She pauses. "Logan mentioned you met someone."
"Logan needs to learn to keep his mouth shut."
"Logan is worried about you. We all are." Her voice softens. "Donovan, in the fifteen years I've worked for you, I've never seen you this distracted. What happened in Miami?"
What happened in Miami?
Em happened in Miami.
Beautiful, sharp-tongued Em.
Em who left without a trace.
"Nothing happened," I reply. “We came. We saw. We met over brunch and bad coffee. End of story."
Margaret crosses her legs, and I keep going.
"The reception starts in four hours," I say, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a battering ram. "Have the new hires been briefed?"
Margaret sighs. "Carmen's handling it. Everyone's been given their talking points, dress code guidelines, and explicit instructions not to get drunk and hit on board members."
She pulls out her tablet, scrolling through the evening's schedule. "The caterers arrive at five, press at six, general reception at seven. You're giving opening remarks at seven-thirty."
"Guest list?"
"Board members, investors, key clients, and select staff. Plus the five new strategic hires we're announcing tonight."
Five new hires.
Including, apparently, our newest hire to the Strategy and Development team.
Emma Something-or-Other.
"Sir?" Margaret eyes me. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"I'm fine." I stand, buttoning my suit jacket. "I need to review the product demo one more time before tonight."
"The product demo is perfect. You've reviewed it six times."
"Seven times is better.
By six forty-five, the reception is in full swing, and I'm going through the motions.
Handshake. Sip bubbly. Comment about market conditions.
Another handshake.
Joke about the Yankees.
Dodge a question about my personal life with a redirect to Titan's quarterly performance.
And dammit, I’m usually good at this.
Fifteen years of building a company from the ground up means I can work a room in my sleep.
But tonight, I'm distracted.
Logan notices first. Sandy-blond hair tousled and smirking, he appears at my elbow with two glasses of champagne, pressing one into my hand.
"You're doing the thing," he says quietly.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you smile and nod but you're actually planning your escape route." He takes a sip of his champagne. "What's wrong? Please don't tell me you're worried about the demo. The demo is flawless."
"The demo is fine."
"Then what—" He stops, green eyes narrowing. "Oh my God. You're still thinking about Miami girl, aren't you?"
"Keep your voice down," I hiss.
"It's been almost a month, Don. If you wanted to find her that badly, you could have—"
"Could have what? Hired a private investigator? Stalked every hotel in Miami?" I shrug. “Doesn't matter. She's gone. I'm here. End of story."
Before I can argue, Thane appears, blue eyes scanning the room, bourbon in hand.
“Hey, look alive, you two. The new hires are here," he says, nodding toward the entrance, swiping a hand through his silvered-brown locks. "Carmen's bringing them around to meet the executives."
I make appropriate comments about looking forward to meeting them, even though the last thing I want to do right now is make small talk with nervous new employees.
But then I see her.
And I swear my soul leaves my body.
Across the room, standing next to Carmen Rodriguez, our Director of Strategic Development, is Em.
My Em.
She's wearing a navy dress that fits her lithe, curvy form.
It’s prim. Professional.
And somehow more devastating than the tank top and shorts from Miami.
Her silky dark hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she's listening intently to whatever Carmen's saying.
Nodding and asking questions with the same easy intelligence I remember.
She smiles at the director. With no clue what the hell is about to happen.
"Don?" Logan nudges me. “Yo! Did we lose you or what? You look—"
"I know her," I say quietly.
"You know who?"
“Who is that?” I nod to the brunette whose body I know only too well.
Thane squints, looking over. “I—Carmen mentioned her name, I think. Emily. Or Amber.”
“Fuck,” I swear, pulse practically pounding in my throat. “I’m guessing that’s the new manager of Strategy. Emma Sinclair.” I take another gulp of my champagne, and the swallow goes down like razor blades. "She's Miami girl."
Logan coughs—sputters. “Wait—are you bullshitting me right now?”
"I wish I was."
"Your one-night stand?”
“Yup.”
“Holy fuck.” Logan's trying not to laugh and failing miserably. “And I mean that literally.”
"This isn't funny."
"It's a little funny."
"It's a a goddamn disaster. Why the hell didn’t Margaret—“
But I don't get to finish that sentence because Carmen is heading our way with Emma in tow, and I have five seconds to get my face under control before—
Hazel eyes—a molten gold under the dim lighting—widen, her cheeks flushing a subtle pink.
She stumbles mid-step, and Carmen catches her elbow.
“Oop. Careful.” The director smiles. “These floors are slippery in heels."
"Sorry," Emma strangles out. "First day jitters. Well, not first day. First reception. First... everything."
She's babbling.
A nervous tick she showed in Miami.
Carmen steers her toward our group. "Gentlemen, I'd like you to meet Emma Sinclair, one of our new strategic development managers. Emma, this is Logan Malcolm and Thane Van Buren from our board, and—"
"Donovan Mitchell," I finish, extending my hand, even as heat crawls under my collar. "CEO. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Sinclair."
For a moment, I think she's going to refuse to shake my hand.
Or maybe run screaming from the building.
Instead, she takes it, a spark shooting from her skin to mine.
"Mr. Titan.” Her hand is surprisingly steady. "The pleasure is mine. I'm thrilled to be joining the Titan team."
“I’ve…heard a lot of great things about you.”
"Thank you, sir. I'm excited to contribute to the company's success."
Sir. She called me sir.
I frown. Because I might not like it.
But my cock sure does.
"Emma comes to us with an excellent background," Carmen adds. "Top of her class at Northwestern, impressive internship experience, and her case study during the interview process was one of the strongest we've seen."
“Of course.” I nod. "Titan has always valued results over credentials."
Our eyes hold for a beat too long, and I see the question in her hazel ones.
Are we really going to pretend we don't know each other?
I answer with the slightest nod.
We have to.
"Well," Carmen says, clapping her hands. "I'll let you gentlemen chat while I introduce Emma to some of the other team members. Emma?"
"Of course. Thank you."
She follows Carmen toward another cluster of executives, and I watch her go, willing the stubborn hard-on under my slacks to subside.
The moment she's out of earshot, Logan and Thane both turn to me.
"Holy fuck," Logan breathes. "You're so screwed."
“Thank you for the update, Logan."
Thane clears his throat. “It would help if you weren’t staring at her like she's the only person in this room."
He's not wrong.
I force myself to look away, to focus on literally anything else.
I motion for one of the passing waiters, depositing my empty champagne glass on his tray.
“Do you have anything stronger than this?” I ask the employee.
He blinks. “Like?”
“Scotch. Whatever you have that’s top-shelf.”
I slip the waiter a hundred and he nods and disappears.
Logan raises his own champagne glass. “Oh yeah, that’s the healthy way to go about it right now.”
“It’s the only way to go about it,” I answer.
But even as I say it, I know it's a lie.
There are a dozen ways to go about this night with Emma.
But I can only think of one.
An hour later, I'm trapped in a conversation with a chatty board member about market conditions when I feel someone's eyes on me.
I glance up and find Emma standing about twenty feet away.
Watching me.
Our gazes clash. And to my utter astonishment, she mouths something I can't quite catch.
She nods towards the balcony, and I understand the message instantly.
Let’s talk.
Now.
And I couldn’t agree more.
Excusing myself from the conversation, I wait for her to reach the balcony first.
Counting to sixty, I follow.
The balcony is thankfully empty, with everyone inside networking and drinking overpriced champagne.
And there she is.
Leaning against the railing. Her back to the door.
In the soft lighting, she looks exactly like she did in Miami.
Nervous. Defiant.
Beautiful.
“So.” She tucks a strand behind her ear, then lets it fall. “Confession time. I had no idea ‘Don’ was short for Donovan Titan until Carmen said your last name. Which, in my defense, sounds like a comic-book alias.”
“Disappointing, I know.” I lean on the rail. “I left my cape in dry cleaning.”
Her eyes flick down my suit—slow. Assessing. “Yeah. I can see the cape outline.”
“Emma.”
“I’m kidding. Mostly.”
A gust moves between us.
Goosebumps rope down her forearm, and I shove my hands in my pockets instead of offering my jacket—being a worse man than I have the luxury right now of being.
Because boundaries.
“I meant what I said in there,” I tell her. “You earned this job. You’re here on merit.”
“And you earned your little secret identity. Though for the record, learning the guy from the beach is also my boss? Not a plot twist I saw coming.”
“Likewise. Walking into my own reception and finding the woman who hijacked my brain in Miami standing by the charcuterie? Not on tonight’s run-of-show.”
She huffs a laugh. “Good. Because the charcuterie was underseasoned.”
“A tragedy.”
We both look out over the lights for a breath that isn’t quite long enough.
“Okay,” she says, business-like. “So, it’s rules for us, then.”
I blink. “I like rules. Humor me.”
“Okay.” Her pointed chin lifts. “Rule one? We pretend Miami never happened.”
“No Miami,” I agree, jaw flexing. ”Got it.”
“Rule two,” she continues, “no preferential treatment. I report to Carmen, not you. We keep conversations in hallways under sixty seconds and fully clothed.”
“Harsh but fair.”
“Rule three: names. At work, you’re Mr. Titan—as Marvel Comics as that sounds. Outside of work… if outside of work ever exists… you’re—”
“Don,” I supply, and my voice comes out low enough that her pupils flare.
She swallows. “And me?”
“Emma. Or ‘Em’ if you like.”
“Emma’s fine.” Her gaze drops to my mouth, then snaps up. “And one more thing.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I…didn’t ghost you in Miami because I didn’t like you,” she says, the words a hair above a whisper. “I left because we seemed on the same page. No names. No mess.”
“It wasn’t simple.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
Silence expands—elastic. Hungry.
"Agreed."
"Absolutely."
We're standing too close now.
I should step back. I should go inside.
Instead, I say, "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here."
She looks up at me, brows knitting together. "You are?"
"You're exactly the kind of talent Titan needs." I pause. "Even if the timing is cosmically terrible."
She laughs. ”Cosmically terrible is putting it mildly." She takes a breath. "Okay. So…starting Monday, you're just my boss and I'm just your employee."
"Exactly."
"Great."
"Perfect."
Neither of us budges.
"We could probably go back inside now,” Emma says.
"Probably."
"Right.” She's smiling now—that same smile from Miami that made me forget why I don’t do more than one night. With anyone.
She exhales. "This is going to be impossible, isn't it?"
I look at her—really look at her—and know that she's right.
Working with Emma while pretending I don't remember the way she tastes, the sound of her laugh, the feeling of her falling asleep in my arms?
This is going to be a shit-show.
But I shake my head, taking a step forward. “If you can do it, so can I.”
She peers up at me again. And I’m sure she’ll respond.
But she doesn’t, turning instead.
Then she's gone, slipping back into the reception.
Leaving me alone. On the balcony.
With the city lights below and the certainty that I just made everything infinitely more complicated.
Logan was right.
I'm so goddamned screwed.