Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Sara
I’m fine.
Totally fine.
Just a normal person at her totally normal job working for her totally not insanely hot one-night stand boss.
Coolcoolcoolcool.
Nick Ashford is everywhere.
In the hallway. In meetings. In my head.
In my dreams, which—thanks, brain—have been turning into 3 a.m. reruns of Elevatorgate: The Pantsing. I woke up last night clutching a pillow and muttering, “Sir, this is an elevator,” like some kind of sleep-deprived retail worker in heat.
It’s been two whole weeks. Ten long, caffeine-fueled, nerve-mangling days of pretending I’m totally fine every time he walks by, opens his mouth, or exists in a suit that honestly shouldn’t be allowed in an office setting.
I’m running on cold brew, vending machine regret, and pure, uncut denial. The plan is simple: be professional, do the job, keep my eyes on my screen, and absolutely do not bend over anywhere in his line of sight. In that direction lies chaos and possibly an HR seminar with slides.
That plan?
Hasn’t been going well…
And today might be the worst day of all.
First, there’s the brainstorm meeting.
We’re crammed around a whiteboard in one of those tiny feeling meeting rooms that turns everything into a silent performance review. Nick walks in and takes the seat right next to mine, and suddenly I’m aware of every breath, every inch of my posture, every awkward part of just… existing.
He doesn’t even glance over, but he doesn’t need to. I can smell his cologne, and it hits hard, which is absolutely not helpful to my current plan of pretending I’m totally fine.
I pitch an idea for the fall campaign. It gets nods. Nick doesn’t speak, but I catch the faintest flicker of approval.
Which is somehow worse than outright praise.
Then we’re back at our desks and the printer goes full demon-mode.
I’m standing there, wrestling with the stupid jammed printer using one hand and trying not to drop my laptop with the other. Then a hand appears next to mine—his—and of course the machine decides to behave. Starts printing as if it’s never caused a single problem in its life.
Our hands brush.
Just a second. Just skin on skin.
Whatever thoughts I had left? Gone. He just hands me the paper and walks off, completely unfazed, while I stand there trying to remember how basic motor function works.
I fan my face with the paper and say, “Dammit, Sara,” under my breath for the fifteenth time today.
Then comes the team lunch.
It’s casual. Mostly. A mix of junior and senior marketing folks, gathered around a long conference table littered with takeout boxes and half-empty LaCroix cans. I try to blend in. Keep the conversation light. Make a joke about the brand campaign being so bland it might as well be beige-flavored.
Nick, who is seated directly across from me because apparently the universe enjoys playing chicken with my willpower, actually laughs.
Not a fake, CEO chuckle. A real, surprised huff of amusement that makes me forget how forks work.
He looks at me, really looks. Not as the girl from the elevator, not as some mistake. His eyes catch on mine and stay there, steady. There’s amusement in them, interest. Something warmer, softer. He’s charmed. And I feel it everywhere.
Which is completely unfair because he’s the one who’s all tall and broody and devastating in a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Meanwhile, I’m over here barely holding it together with a Tide pen and a prayer.
I leave lunch ten minutes early and hide in the bathroom.
And by hide, I mean lean against the sink, close my eyes, and have a brief but spirited conversation with my reflection.
“You are fine,” I hiss. “You are a professional. You are not going to melt just because your boss has cheekbones carved by the gods and smells like sin and spreadsheets. You are better than this. You are—”
The door creaks open.
I go quiet. Slip into a stall. Wait for whoever it is to leave while I plot my slow descent into insanity.
Because here’s the truth: I like this job.
I like the team. I like the work. I’m good at it.
But if Nick keeps looking at me in that way…
If he keeps acting as if I’m more than just some random hire…
I don’t know how long I can keep pretending I don’t feel it, too.
Worse?
In the afternoon, he calls me into his office to “review a campaign.”
Totally normal. Totally routine.
Except it’s not.
The second I step inside, the air thickens. The door clicks shut behind me, sealing us in. It’s just me and him now, and the sexual tension pressing in from every corner, sharp and electric.
The lights are low. Not sexy low, just corporate soft. But somehow it’s still as if we’re back in that elevator, seconds away from a terrible decision that felt too good to be wrong.
He’s standing near the window when I enter, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a folder with mockup printouts. His sleeves are rolled up again, of course they are, and I have to force my eyes upward before I start mentally designing a commemorative plaque for his forearms.
“Close the door?” he asks, voice smooth but unreadable.
I do. Because I have no spine. And also because my brain has momentarily been replaced with a glittering slideshow of bad choices.
He moves to the desk, spreads out the campaign pages between us, pretending this is about work. Pretending we’re fine. But his gaze lingers, steady, unblinking, taking me in with a focus that says he’s already mapped every inch of me and isn’t done yet.
My throat goes dry. My heart tap dances in my chest. I grip the edge of the desk as if it’ll keep me upright.
“I wanted to go over the targeting adjustments,” he says evenly, eyes still locked on mine instead of the spreadsheets.
“Oh, you mean the ones I literally just emailed you twenty minutes ago?” I reply, sarcastic and a little breathless.
He cocks a brow. “Yes. Those.”
I try to focus. I really do. But my brain’s buffering.
He takes a step closer.
I take a tiny, instinctive step back, bumping into the corner of his desk.
He notices.
The tiniest hint of a smirk curves at the edge of his mouth. “Something wrong?”
“Nope,” I say, too quickly. “I just… uh. Had lunch too fast.”
He says nothing.
Just studies me.
Carefully. Intently. Eyes tracking every breath I take, every shift in my expression, measuring how close I am to coming apart in his hands.
“Sir,” I add, sarcastic, half under my breath.
It’s meant to be a jab.
But his eyes darken.
His gaze narrows, sharp with memory—every word I threw at him in that elevator, every gasp, every taunt, the way I wrapped around him, breath hot against his skin, a secret he still hasn’t let go of.
I swear the air tilts. The room narrows. My breath catches and his jaw tenses and for one long, perilous second, he leans in.
Not far.
But far enough.
Close enough that I can feel his breath on my cheek, warm and quiet and way too full of memory.
I lean back, but not far enough.
Our eyes lock.
Nothing happens.
But everything happens.
The moment stretches, tight, bright, charged, heat humming in the space between us, sharp enough to cut.
Then… he clears his throat. Takes a small step back. Adjusts a paper on the desk with sudden, surgical precision, as if control is something he can summon with his fingertips.
My lungs seize before unlocking, air dragging in rough and shaky, too loud in the silence.
“Well,” I say, voice wobbly. “That was… informative.”
He glances at me, all calm composure, but his eyes betray him.
They’re not calm.
Not even close.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” he says.
“Sure,” I say, somehow managing to move my legs toward the door. “I’ll just… go breathe oxygen somewhere else now.”
I don’t look back.
Because if I do, I’m not sure I’ll leave at all.
Thank God the day is over and I can finally leave this nightmare.
My brain is mush. My libido is a traitor. And my self control is hanging by a thread made of recycled Post-it notes and shame.
The lobby is quiet, the late summer sun casting gold across the marble floors. I’m halfway to the exit when someone steps in my path.
“Oops… sorry!” I say, nearly colliding with her.
She’s striking. Tall, glossy dark hair, tailored ivory coat over a green silk dress that probably costs more than my monthly rent. She doesn’t move right away. Just looks at me with a small, strange smile.
“Not your fault,” she says smoothly, her eyes skimming over me with clinical precision. Not rude. Just measured. Calculated. Cataloging details she has no business knowing but clocks anyway.
She cocks her head. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
I blink. “Uh… yeah.”
She hums, a sound too knowing for the silence that follows. “Well. Enjoy your evening.”
Then she turns and walks toward the elevators, leaving something unspoken hanging in the air between us.
Weird. But not alarmingly so.
I shake it off. Probably someone from upper management. Or legal. Or HR. Or a very judgmental ghost.
Whatever. I survived the day again. I deserve a reward.
Back at Laura’s apartment, I drop my bag, kick off my shoes, and collapse onto the couch, every muscle finally giving in to the weight of the day.
Laura looks up from her laptop. “You look like you fought God and lost.”
“I had to make eye contact with the man I dry-humped in an elevator while discussing ad targeting.”
She winces. “Oof. Spicy.”
“It was not spicy. It was HR illegal with a side of please bury me under the floorboards.”
She tosses a popcorn kernel at me. “Okay, but like… hear me out.”
“No.”
“Just hear me out.”
I groan. “Laura—”
“You clearly want to climb him like a corporate ladder. And he clearly wants to get lost in your blouse. So why not have a little fun?”
“Because he’s my boss.”
“And you’re not planning to fall for him.”
“Exactly.”
“Then what’s the problem?” she says, as if this is simple math instead of emotional calculus. “You have insane chemistry. You’re both adults. Let off some steam. Flirt a little. Have fun. It’s not like you’re going to fall for him, right?”
I laugh.
It sounds suspiciously like a lie.
Laura arches a brow. “Oh my god. You like him.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Uh-huh.”
I throw a pillow at her and sink deeper into the couch.
“I should start packing soon,” I mumble. “The landlord said my unit will be ready in a week or so.”
Laura grins. “Aw. I’m going to miss our roommate era.”
“I think Meatball will miss you more. At least we’ll still be in the same building.”
From his spot by the fridge, Meatball lets out a snort, agreeing in his own way.
Or maybe he’s just waiting for cheese.