5. Skye
Skye
T here's nothing like anxiety and last-minute self-loathing to make a girl question all of her life choices before nine a.m. I stare at my reflection in the mirrored elevator, clutching my coffee like it might give me answers. Or courage. Or a tranquilizer.
The elevator dings softly as it climbs past the twenty-second floor. I catch my own eyes in the mirror and mutter under my breath, "You are smart. You are capable. You are not going to accidentally hit on your ex's incredibly fiiiiine dad."
The woman next to me gives me a startled look.
I smile politely. "Morning affirmations. Big day."
She nods like she gets it, confusion written all over her face, but I don’t have the energy to be embarrassed right now.
My heart is beating rapidly out of sync with the sleek jazz playing in the elevator.
My outfit is professional in that I'm definitely trying to look like I've got my shit together way—black tailored pants, silky mauve blouse tucked just enough, a structured blazer, and my favorite pair of kick-ass heels.
I even wore lipstick… Like that's going to protect me.
At my old job, I didn’t work with the executives. Sure, we had a quarterly meeting with everyone in my department, but I was never working one-on-one with any of them, and I certainly wasn’t attracted to any of them.
The elevator doors slide open on the thirty-fifth floor, and I step into the headquarters of Blackwood Ventures.
It's… stunning.
The open-plan office with clean lines has glass walls that reflect the city like a painting. The kind of design that whispers money without screaming new money. Modern but not cold. Expensive but tasteful. A little intimidating, which probably explains why I immediately start sweating.
A woman with a perfect chignon and a head-to-toe black ensemble greets me at the reception desk. She checks me in, hands me a sleek visitor badge with my name already printed, and smiles like she knows I'm nervous.
"This way, Miss Rhodes. Mr. Blackwood asked me to walk you up."
Of course he did.
She leads me past a row of offices, the sound of heels clicking softly against polished marble.
I catch glimpses of glass conference rooms, people on video calls, the scent of espresso and whatever cologne the building is legally required to pump through the air to remind you that you’re in a man’s world.
Everything's precise, every little detail attended to like it belongs to someone who doesn't miss a thing. And I feel like a smudge on a Monet.
We stop in front of a corner office that has no business being that beautiful. The door is cracked slightly. The assistant gestures toward it and says in a gentle tone, "He's expecting you," then she disappears.
I don't move right away.
I stand there, holding my coffee, staring at the inch of open door like it might bite me.
This is fine. Totally fine. It's a job. A temp job. For a man who used to intimidate the hell out of me just by existing and now makes my stomach flip like a teen in a CW drama.
I'm not nervous because I like him. I'm nervous because he's powerful. And okay, fine, hot… Really hot.
Hot in the would absolutely ruin your life kind of way.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and push the door open.
The first thing I see is his back. He's standing near the window, suit jacket draped over the back of a leather chair, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed.
He's talking on the phone, voice low and firm.
I catch fragments—something about investor expectations and Q3 metrics—but the words barely register.
Because the man is unreal.
Reece Blackwood in daylight is not the same Reece Blackwood I saw in a dimly lit bar.
This version is sharper, more composed, carved in confidence and quiet authority.
His hair is a little tousled, like he ran his hand through it out of habit, and his shirt hugs his frame in a way that makes me profoundly aware I've been single for weeks and emotionally unmoored for longer.
He turns when he hears the door shut behind me, still on the call, eyes landing on mine with a flicker of something unreadable. That look is brief, barely half a second, but it does something to my chest. Like someone's pressed pause on the air in the room and is making me wait to breathe.
"Understood," he says into the phone, tone clipped. "Let's circle back on Thursday."
He ends the call and sets the phone on his desk before giving me his full attention. "Good morning." His voice is deeper than I remember. Rougher somehow. It slides across my skin like velvet dragged against glass.
"Morning," I manage, pulling my professional mask into place like a shield. "Impressive views."
His mouth lifts, barely. "They're better when I'm not on back-to-back calls."
"I imagine everything is."
“Did you get all of the documents and details that Leann sent over?” he asks, a look of concern on his face.
“I did.”
“Good. She wasn’t expecting to go into early labor and miss training you, but I’m sure that between you and me, we can work up some semblance of a quick transition into your new role.”
There's a moment of silence—just a beat too long. And then, like we're both remembering we're adults with jobs and not characters in a slow-burn romance novel, he gestures toward the desk that sits in the alcove, just outside of his office.
"Your setup. Leann's system is intuitive, but we can walk through anything you'd like adjusted.”
I nod, moving toward the desk, grateful for something to focus on that isn't the devastating cut of his jaw or the way his tie is loosened just enough to see the dark hair that peppers his chest.
The desk is minimal: a dual-monitor setup, a closed laptop, a sleek phone system, and a single black notebook with my name embossed on the front.
My stomach does a slow flip.
"You did this?"
"Leann handled the logistics. I told her I wanted you ready on day one. Here.” He pulls the chair away from the desk and gestures toward it. “Allow me.”
Something about the way his eyes follow me makes my pulse trip.
I settle into the chair and open the laptop, scanning the startup screen. Everything's loaded and ready, just waiting for me to sink into the rhythm.
Reece lingers beside my desk, not in a hovering way—I imagine he’s far too self-possessed for that—but close enough that I can feel the heat of his presence even when he’s not speaking.
He walks me through a few essentials, pointing out the folder system Leann used, which calendar alerts are flexible versus carved in stone, and the three executives I should never, ever reschedule without bloodshed or a board vote.
“There are a few other assistants on this floor,” he adds, his gaze flicking briefly down the hallway.
“You’ll meet them eventually. Gina’s sharp.
I spoke with her when you arrived—she’s a good resource if you have questions.
” He doesn’t lean on my desk, doesn’t fidget, doesn’t do anything unnecessary.
Every word, every movement is purposeful.
Controlled. And yet the space between us hums like static.
And while I tell myself I’m imagining it… the tension? It's alive.
It hums beneath the surface like a wire pulled too tight. Neither of us acknowledges it, but I can feel it in the way his voice lowers when he speaks to me. In the way his gaze lingers half a second longer than it should when I ask a question.
He doesn't flirt. Not overtly. But he watches. And I notice.
God, do I notice .
"So," I say, breaking the quiet. "What's the first fire of the day?"
He glances over, sliding a document across the desk between us. "Investor summit next week. We're finalizing keynote speakers. I need coordination between my team and the marketing firm."
"Consider it done."
"I'll forward the contact threads."
"Forward away."
Another pause. His eyes hold mine. "You seem calm."
"Fake it 'til you make it," I say lightly. "Or in my case, until you remember how to breathe in dress pants and four-inch heels after spending the last few weeks on my couch pantsless."
That earns me the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth as his eyes drop down slightly to take in my shoes.
He doesn’t say anything right away, but there’s a shift in his gaze, like he’s imagining something he shouldn’t.
His jaw flexes once. Then his voice dips, low enough that I almost miss it.
“Didn’t peg you for the type to wear those on your first day.”
Those . Not heels. Not stilettos. Those . His voice doesn’t sound critical. If anything, it sounds… curious. Maybe a little too appreciative. Or maybe I’m imagining that last part.
My stomach does a slow, unhelpful flip. I open my mouth to say something—flirty? Defensive? Self-deprecating? I have no idea. But before I can land on a response, he’s already turning back toward his office, pausing only to say, “I’ll be in here if you need anything.”
The door doesn’t fully close behind him.
I stare at it for a beat longer than necessary, heart pounding, brain screaming, what the hell was that? And then I shake it off, dragging my attention back to the screen in front of me.
We settle into a rhythm over the next hour.
He answers emails while I triage his calendar, clean up scheduling conflicts, and reschedule two meetings that should never have been in-person.
It's easy, weirdly so. The work is fast-paced, but I like it.
It reminds me I'm not broken, that I still know how to do this, even if the stakes feel higher when the man sitting ten feet away is the reason my heart rate hasn't dropped below panic since I walked in.
By midmorning, I've rearranged his Thursday entirely and flagged two items his analyst team missed in the last market report.
Reece steps out of his office, and I look up, sipping my coffee. "I think I just saved your Thursday from implosion."
Reece glances at his screen. "You did."
"Well, in that case, I'd like to request hazard pay."