9. Skye
Skye
I ’m starting to think working here might be bad for my health.
And not in the normal, I-stare-at-a-screen-for-eleven-hours-a-day way. No, this is more of a full-body, soul-level, emotional whiplash kind of threat. Like my nervous system’s been put in a microwave and someone keeps hitting reheat every time Reece Blackwood walks by.
Which he just did… Again.
Wearing a suit that probably cost more than my entire student loan balance and smelling like cedar and heartbreak. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded at me, eyes unreadable, jaw tight, like the air between us wasn’t crackling so loud it could short out the office Wi-Fi.
It’s been two days since the client meeting. Two days since he walked around that massive table and stood so close I could feel the heat of his body. Since he took my iPad out of my hands like he was about to pick me up, throw me down onto the table, and devour me and then… didn’t.
Instead, he backed away like I was the one about to burn him. And yet here we are. Still pretending like we’re not dancing around a very dangerous precipice. Still pretending like every exchange doesn’t feel like a match being struck.
I sit at my desk, fingers resting on the keyboard, rereading the same line of an email I’ve been trying to send for twenty minutes.
Please let us know if the revised language aligns with your timeline and expectations.
My brain adds, Also, please advise how to stop picturing your boss ’ hands gripping the edge of a table while you sink to your knees.
Yeah. That part I don’t type. I delete the sentence. Type it again. Hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
“Working hard or hardly working?” Maya’s voice chimes in through my AirPods, and I flinch, completely forgetting I was on the phone with her before he walked by and distracted me.
“Shut up.”
“Ooh, testy. Let me guess—he wore the navy suit again?”
“The gray one,” I say grimly. “With the black shirt. No tie. Top two buttons undone like he knows exactly what he’s doing.”
Maya lets out a low whistle. “Rude.”
“Criminal,” I agree. “If he wants to destroy me, he should at least have the decency to do it in sweatpants. Or Crocs. Something that gives me a fighting chance.”
“You could just quit.”
I snort. “And miss the chance to gradually combust from unresolved sexual tension? Where’s the fun in that?”
She pauses. “You sure it’s just sexual?”
I hate how quiet that question makes me. Because it’s not. Not really.
Sure, I want to climb him like a tree and make questionable decisions involving office furniture, but it’s starting to feel like a little bit more than that.
It’s the way he listens. The way he softens, just slightly, when he’s talking to a junior staffer who’s nervous.
The way his voice lowers when he asks if I need anything, like the offer means more than what it sounds like.
It’s the way I feel around him, seen and invisible, steady and off-balance, all at once. It’s thrilling and exciting, a forbidden temptation that only drives me more wild the more I resist it.
“I don’t know what it is,” I admit.
Maya makes a sympathetic noise. “Well, that’s terrifying.”
“Tell me about it.”
There’s a long pause on the other end, then her voice drops into that deadpan tone she saves for when she’s about to throw emotional grenades.
“You know damn well what it is, Skye. Stop pretending.”
“Nope,” I lie, spinning in my chair again. “No idea. Not a clue. Just a girl out here trying to do her job while her disturbingly hot boss refuses to look and act like a normal crotchety old CEO.”
“Skye.”
“What?”
“It’s the daddy issues.”
My mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she says, maddeningly casual. “Tall, old enough to know better, emotionally unavailable, dominant energy, definitely repressing feelings from some trauma? Baby girl, this is textbook. If you opened Freud’s diary, I bet your name would be scribbled in the margins.”
“I do not have daddy issues,” I hiss.
Maya snorts. “You literally told me you want him to ruin you.”
“That’s not daddy issues, that’s just—” I fumble for a word. “That’s lust with a side of executive fantasy.”
She cackles. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Meanwhile, every time he calls you ‘Miss Rhodes,’ I know your panties evaporate on the spot.”
“They do not,” I whisper, scandalized and completely full of shit.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, babe.”
“I mean, what even qualifies as daddy issues anymore?” I mutter. “Just because a girl wants a man to boss her around, tell her she’s a good girl, and maybe occasionally pin her against a glass wall doesn’t mean she has daddy issues,” I blurt, louder than I mean to.
Too loud. The word bounces off the walls like a ricocheting bullet. I freeze, eyes darting toward Reece’s office. His chair is empty. Jacket still draped over the back like he just stepped away.
Fuck.
Maya goes silent for a beat. “Skye?”
“I think I just screamed ‘daddy issues’ in an open floor plan that is very, very echoey.”
“Oh my God,” she whispers, gleeful. “Did anyone hear?”
“I don’t know.”
I peer toward the kitchen area. Nothing. I let out a slow breath. “Okay. He’s not in his office, and no one’s popping out of a potted plant to fire me, so I think I’m good.”
“For now,” she singsongs.
“I’m hanging up.”
“Please tell me if he spanks you for insubordination.”
“Goodbye, Maya.”
I end the call, still internally screaming, and sit there another minute pretending I’m fine before grabbing my mug and heading to the kitchen for more coffee I absolutely don’t need.
But just as I round the corner, I nearly slam straight into him. Of course.
Because the universe is a petty little drama queen with a flair for psychological warfare.
“Sorry,” I mumble, stepping back too quickly, my arm brushing his chest before I can catch myself.
His hand catches my elbow, just a brush of fingers, but it’s enough. Enough to jolt my already-fried nervous system into full, chaotic overdrive.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low and far too calm for the way I’m falling apart internally.
No. I’m not. I’m not okay. I’m spiraling. I’m horny. And you’re looking at me like you know it.
“Fine,” I lie. “Too much caffeine. Not enough food.”
His mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but thinks better of it. “There are pastries in the lounge.”
I squint at him. “Seriously?”
He nods. “Client gift. I haven’t touched them.”
I move toward the coffee machine and start pouring a cup, trying to act casual while simultaneously praying he walks back to his office because I’m far too tense to be trapped in this small kitchen with him.
Then his voice—dry, amused, and far too close behind me—cuts through the quiet.
“Hopefully the pastries can help you process your daddy issues.”
My hand freezes mid-pour. Oh my God.
My entire body goes still. Heat flashes across my face so fast I’m surprised the coffee doesn’t boil over in my hand.
“You—” I start, still facing the machine. “You heard that?”
A pause. Then the soft scrape of his voice again, closer now. “Hard not to, Miss Rhodes. You said it like you wanted someone to hear.”
I turn slowly, mug in hand, cheeks burning, heart threatening to beat straight out of my chest. He’s leaning against the counter across from me now, calm as ever, his expression unreadable, except for the glint of something wicked in his eyes.
Smug bastard.
He lifts his coffee cup to his lips, like this is all perfectly normal.
“It was a joke,” I say quickly.
“Was it?” he asks, letting the question linger in the air between us.
“I wasn’t— It wasn’t about you ,” I sputter. “It was a joke. A… generalized… theoretical thing.”
He pushes away from the counter, then reaches past me, pours himself more coffee, and takes a sip like this is any other Wednesday and I didn’t just say the world’s most humiliating phrase loud enough to echo through the hallway.
He turns toward me, still holding his mug. “Hmm. That’s too bad.”
I blink. “Too bad?”
His eyes are steady. Dark. Focused completely on mine.
“Because it would explain a few things.”
My stomach plummets. I grip the edge of the counter like I might float off the planet otherwise. “Like what, exactly?”
He doesn’t answer. Just takes a slow, measured step toward me. Then another. By the time he’s close enough to touch, I can barely breathe.
“Like the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”
I inhale sharply.
“Like the way you bite your lip when I call you Miss Rhodes.”
My breath stutters. “That’s not?—”
“Like the way you talk to Leo.”
My eyes narrow. “What does Leo have to do with anything?”
He shrugs. Too casual. But there’s heat flickering behind his control now, sparking in that too-still body. “You’re easy around him. Comfortable. You laugh with him.”
“Yeah, because he’s… harmless.” His jaw tics. “Oh my God,” I whisper, realization blooming. “You’re jealous.”
He lifts his coffee again, unfazed. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
We stare at each other, something coiled and electric tightening between us.
“You really think I have daddy issues ?” I ask, trying to sound unaffected, like the air between us isn’t crackling. He steps even closer. His steps measured like he’s reeling me in without touching me.
His voice is quiet, lethal. “I think you’re a very smart woman with very dangerous instincts.”
I swallow. Hard. “Dangerous how?”
“Because you keep pushing me. And I’m not sure you realize what’ll happen when I stop resisting.”
I don’t move. He leans in, just a little farther, until I can feel the heat of him against my front, until my back is pressed against the counter and his hand lands next to mine—close but not touching. Caging me in place with nothing but his presence.
“You think this is a game, Skye. You flirt. You test. You joke about wanting to be ruined.”
My heart is hammering in my chest. “And?”
His eyes are on my mouth now. “And I’m not sure you know what that really means.”