Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Sara
I burst into Laura’s apartment, wild-eyed and reckless, driven by something feral and unapologetic.
“You are not going to believe this!” I shout, kicking the door open with the same level of restraint I used during my last caffeine detox—which is to say, none.
Laura bolts upright on the couch, the blanket sliding off her face as if she’s been jolted back to life. Her hair’s a chaotic mess, one sock barely clinging to her foot, and she’s clutching a pillow with the intensity of someone preparing to defend themselves.
“What? What happened? Is someone dead?” she gasps, blinking hard at the afternoon light, scowling dangerously.
Before I can answer, a furry missile launches off the armrest and barrels toward me.
“Hi, Meatball,” I mutter, bending to let the world’s chunkiest French bulldog shove his flat little face directly into my knees. He snorts, wheezes, then licks my ankle with the dramatic flair of a soap opera villain.
“Okay, no one’s dead,” Laura mumbles, rubbing her eyes. “Meatball’s not trained for tragedy. You woke me up from my intentional nap for what exactly?”
I slam the door shut, throw my bag on the kitchen counter, and spin to face her.
“You remember elevator guy?”
Laura frowns. “The hot one-night stand slash walking cautionary tale?”
“Uh-huh.”
“The mystery man who destroyed your panties and then ghosted into the night like some kind of capitalist Batman?”
“Correct.”
“Well, yeah. What about him?”
I press both hands flat to my chest, trying to manually restart my heart.
“He. Interviewed. Me.”
Silence.
More silence.
Then Laura blinks. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? I think I just stroked out.”
I groan and throw myself face first onto the other end of the couch, narrowly missing a sleeping Meatball, who makes a honking sound and headbutts me in the thigh in protest.
“I went in for the interview today,” I mumble into the couch cushion.
“Last one. Late addition. The job was supposed to be at this fancy corporate firm I barely remembered applying to, but I showed up because I need health insurance and at least three meals a day that don’t involve toaster waffles. ”
Laura just stares.
I lift my head, eyes wide. “And there he was. Nick. In a suit that probably costs more than my entire student debt. Sitting behind this giant desk like Mr. Darcy’s richer, meaner cousin. And do you know what he said when he saw me?”
Laura leans forward, fully invested. “Tell me he fainted. Tell me he fainted like a Victorian widow.”
“He arched one judgmental billionaire eyebrow and said, ‘Well, let’s talk about your qualifications.’ And then, after everything… he hired me!”
Laura howls. Actually howls.
“Oh my god,” she gasps between wheezes. “You banged your boss. You elevator-banged your boss, and now you work for him?!”
“I didn’t know he was going to be my boss!” I shriek.
“I know you didn’t! That’s what makes this so horrifying and delicious!”
Meatball barks once in clear agreement. Then he climbs onto my back and plants himself there, claiming the spot without hesitation.
“I thought he’d kick me out,” I say, muffled under forty pounds of smug canine. “Instead, he hired me. On the spot. No second interview. No paperwork. Just boom. ‘You’re hired, Ms. Brooks.’ Like this was a Hallmark movie with slightly more sex and a lot more HR violations.”
Laura’s still wheezing.
“And then, then, I asked for a better title,” I say, flipping over and dislodging Meatball with a yelp. “Like a lunatic. Like I had leverage.”
“You did,” she says, wiping tears from her eyes. “You’ve seen his CEO O-face. That’s power.”
I throw a pillow at her.
She catches it, hugs it to her chest, and grins.
“Okay. Okay. Let me get this straight. You had anonymous elevator sex with a hot stranger. Thought you’d never see him again.
Then walked into a corporate office and found out he’s your new boss.
And now you’re working under him, but not like that, at least not yet, and you negotiated your title on day one? ”
I nod grimly. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”
Laura whistles low. “You’re either living the dream or starting a slow burn office disaster that ends with tabloid headlines and a restraining order.”
“Why not both?”
Meatball sneezes in agreement.
I drop my head back against the couch and groan again. “What am I gonna do, Laura? I can’t quit. I need the paycheck. But he’s… him. And I can’t stop thinking about what happened. Or what could happen if I’m not careful.”
“Simple,” she says, shrugging. “You keep your head down, do your job, and absolutely, one hundred percent do not sleep with him again.”
I stare at her.
She stares back.
We both burst out laughing.
“Okay, yeah,” Laura gasps. “That’s never gonna happen.”
I cover my face with both hands. “I’m doomed.”
“Completely doomed,” she says helpfully.
Meatball climbs onto my lap, lets out a long, dramatic sigh, and flops over with his tongue hanging out. I stroke his velvet ears and sigh, too.
Tomorrow, I officially start working at Ashford Holdings.
My boss is the last man I should ever want.
And I have no idea how I’m supposed to get through a single day without remembering the way he said my name, voice low and aching.
I’m screwed.
But, you know, professionally.
Probably.
The next morning, I slap on makeup like it’s battle paint.
Foundation: war mask.
Mascara: false confidence.
Lipstick: a color I found at the bottom of my bag that says “I’m fine” even though I have not been fine since the elevator incident of doom.
I yank my hair into the world’s most aggressive bun, throw on the least wrinkled outfit I own—a slightly questionable blouse, miracle skirt, and the only pair of tights without a run—and stare at myself in Laura’s bathroom mirror, bracing for a verdict I haven’t prepared for.
“You’ve got this,” I mutter to myself. “You are calm. You are professional. You are—”
“Extremely late,” Laura calls from the kitchen. “The subway’s on fire again or something. Better run unless you want to show up looking like a frazzled intern with unresolved sexual tension.”
I flip her off on the way out the door, trip over Meatball, who farts in protest and waddles back to his blanket, clearly offended by my hustle.
Thirty-seven minutes later, I walk into Ashford Holdings.
Technically, I sprint in, sweating lightly, already regretting my outfit and praying no one notices the coffee stain that bloomed on my sleeve during the subway-sprint ride-sprint combo. But whatever. I made it.
I march through the doors, head high, channeling CEO energy, which is hilarious because I’m basically three steps above “sad temp” on the corporate ladder. Still. Fake it till you make it.
The lobby is massive. Sleek. Intimidating in a we’ll-crush-your-dreams-and-your-soul kind of way.
A water feature gurgles in the corner, unsettlingly cheerful.
The front desk receptionist doesn’t look up when I give her my name, just hands me a security badge and a too-bright smile that somehow manages to judge my shoes without saying a word.
An elevator dings.
I freeze.
No. Not again.
Not this time.
I eye the elevator doors with deep suspicion. It’s not the same one; we’re in a different building entirely, but my body still tenses. I swear there’s a moan somewhere in the distance, echoing with the weight of bad decisions.
“Get it together,” I mutter, stepping inside.
And this time?
No billionaire.
No button malfunctions.
No spontaneous stripping.
Just thirty-two floors of me quietly freaking out while a man next to me coughs into his elbow and someone else plays Candy Crush on full volume.
When the doors open, I follow the signs to the marketing department with what I hope is a calm, collected walk and not a panicked speed waddle.
The office is open concept, sleek desks, trendy lighting, and employees who probably eat kale on purpose. Everyone’s busy typing, talking, existing without scandal. I glance around for my new desk, zeroing in on the lonely cubicle in the corner next to a plant that’s lost the will to live.
Then I hear it.
His voice.
Deep. Calm. Smooth enough to butter toast with.
Nick.
I freeze.
He’s standing near the wall of the conference room, sleeves rolled up, talking to a team of people as if he’s not the main attraction in every one of my most questionable daydreams. He looks infuriatingly perfect, jaw sharp, tie loose, hair slightly tousled—the kind of tousled that happens after running a hand through it post-firing or post-sex.
Possibly both.
His eyes flick up and catch mine.
Boom.
My brain short-circuits.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just looks at me with a level of calm intensity that makes my knees wobble and my ovaries file HR complaints.
I immediately walk into the edge of a desk.
“Shit,” I hiss, gripping my shin and trying not to cry in the middle of someone else’s fancy hallway.
Someone laughs behind me. Someone else offers a polite “You okay?”, which I respond to with a weak thumbs up and the overwhelming urge to disappear into the floor.
I finally reach my desk and collapse into the chair, heart pounding and limbs heavy. My pulse is still racing, and I haven’t even logged into my email yet.
Professional. Calm. Unbothered.
I am none of those things.
Not when Nick Ashford looks at me with that maddening mix of calculation and craving, half challenge, half temptation.
And the worst part?
I think I want to repeat it, too.
I take my seat and grip my new stapler, the last shred of emotional support I have on this godforsaken corporate battlefield.
“Okay, Captain Clippy,” I murmur under my breath, patting it with trembling fingers. “You and me. We’ve got this.”
My desk is cute, if you like glass, cold lighting, and the kind of energy that says someone’s about to be fired. Everyone around me is gorgeous and competent and probably went to Ivy League schools where they majored in Not Making Out With Their CEO.
The girl next to me has color-coded her Google calendar and brought in her own ergonomic keyboard. I still haven’t figured out how to log in, so I bypassed the portal and found a workaround to access the campaign files anyway.
The workload is terrifying.
There are acronyms I don’t understand.
Meetings I didn’t know I was invited to.
Slack channels filled with people saying things like “circle back” and “let’s park this for now” without even blinking.
By halfway through the morning, I’ve rewritten a CTA that made the senior strategist do a double-take, flagged a broken analytics link no one else had noticed, and figured out how to condense a pitch deck without losing its punch.
By 2 p.m., I’ve had three cups of office coffee, two panic attacks, and an existential crisis over whether I actually know what marketing is or if I just lied really well in my interview. Also? My blouse is sticking to my back in a way that feels aggressive.
Nick passes me in the break room once.
He just strolls in, grabs a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge, and nods. As if we’re strangers at a networking event. As if we haven’t done unspeakable things against the mirrored wall of a stalled elevator.
I nearly choke on my string cheese. He doesn’t even blink.
Absolute monster.
By 5:47 p.m., I’ve sent twelve emails, rewritten one social caption fourteen times, the final one slaps, thank you very much, stared down a cursed spreadsheet, and untangled the logic behind a last-minute client request no one wanted to touch.
Sure, I accidentally replied “same lol” to a message from my new department head. But I also earned a “nice catch” on Slack and got added to a project I wasn’t technically assigned to.
I think I blacked out sometime around three.
But I did it. I made it.
I survived Day One.
Barely.
I gather my things with trembling hands, whisper a final “goodnight, Captain Clippy,” and try not to look directly into Nick’s office as I flee the building with all the grace of a wounded gazelle on fire.
Tomorrow, I’ll be better. Calmer. More confident.
Maybe I’ll even wear deodorant before the panic sweats kick in.
But right now?
I just need wine, carbs, and possibly a ritual cleansing to remove the lingering shame of referring to a stapler as my co-worker.