Chapter 3
MATTHEW
Iwalk back to my office after Jaden and Lea leave, their horrified expressions still playing in my head. Twenty-four hours ago, if someone told me I'd be manufacturing reasons to keep Vivian here past normal hours, I'd have suggested they seek professional help.
Right now, I'm the one who needs help.
I've been here three days and I'm slowly losing my mind.
The problem isn't that I want her. I'm thirty-seven years old—I know what attraction feels like. The problem is that wanting her has somehow infected every other part of my brain.
Yesterday during a presentation, Vivian leaned over to point out a discrepancy, and her hair brushed my arm. I lost track of what Davidson was saying mid-sentence and had to ask him to repeat the last five minutes. Davidson looked at me as if I’d told him he'd model the next collection of handbags.
I don't lose track. Ever. My focus is the one thing I've never had to work at.
I lock in the moment I step into the building.
But for three days straight, half my attention has been on the woman sitting twenty feet away, and the other half has been on trying not to think about what she sounds like when she comes or the taste of her pussy.
This morning's confrontation didn't help.
When I told her she hadn't seemed unimpressed Friday night, watching her face flush while she scrambled to maintain her professional composure was better than coffee.
And when she fired back about my question being unprofessional …
Christ. The bar version of her broke through, and I've been replaying it ever since.
I texted her. I don't text women I'm not dating. I certainly don't flirt with employees. But I thought about the "not really that hot" comment, and before I could talk myself out of it, I was typing. The fact that she ignored the messages tells me everything I need to know about how rattled she is.
Good. At least I'm not suffering alone.
Vivian appears in my doorway with two bags of takeout and her laptop bag slung over her shoulder. She's changed out of her heels into flats, and it doesn't take long for the memory of her slipping out of her shoes to resurface.
Fuck.
"Chinese restaurant from across the building," she says, setting the bags on the conference table by the windows. "I didn't know what you wanted, so I got a bit of everything. Kung pao chicken, dumplings, chow mein, fried rice, and spring rolls."
"That works."
We settle into what should be normal work.
She spreads documents across the table while I open the containers, and for about ten minutes, it almost feels professional.
She walks me through Levi's notes, pointing out potential issues with exporting raw materials.
Her analysis is sharp and thorough, and I find myself genuinely impressed despite being distracted by the way she tucks her pen behind her ear or how she keeps gnawing on her bottom lip.
The office feels different at night. The windows that showed the city's energy during the day now reflect our own images back at us, and every small sound seems amplified. The soft click of her pen. The rustle of papers. The way her skirt pulls slightly when she shifts in her chair.
I'm trying to focus when she reaches across the table for a file, and her perfume—the same scent that's been tormenting me for days—drifts over. I read the same paragraph three times before giving up.
"Question about Levi's management style," I say, pushing the document aside.
She looks up, eyebrows raised. "Okay."
"How does he handle difficult employees?"
"He doesn't really have any. People want to work for him. People bend over backwards to please him."
"What about demanding bosses? How do you handle those?"
Her fingers pause on the chopsticks. "Are you asking about anyone specific?"
"Just curious about your strategies. You've been Levi's EA for two years. You must have developed techniques."
"Techniques for what?"
"Staying professional when your boss is being unreasonable."
Vivian sets down her chopsticks and leans back in her chair. The careful distance she's been maintaining all day is still there, but something in her posture shifts. "Mr. Astor, are you trying to get me to critique your management style?"
"I'm trying to figure out why you're sitting there like you're afraid I'm going to bite."
"I'm not afraid you're going to bite."
"Then where are your claws, Vivian? I want to see them. You were feisty enough when we first met and had opinions about everything."
"I'm not sure if you've noticed, Mr. Astor, but we are at work. Who I am at a bar will obviously be vastly different from who I am in the office. I know when to sheathe my claws."
"I just can't seem to reconcile the person. You had plenty to say at the bar. And this morning, for about thirty seconds, you remembered how to fight back. Now you're all yes sir, no sir, would you like me to sharpen your pencils."
"Maybe I'm being professional because this is a professional environment."
"Or maybe you're being boring because you think it's safer."
"Excuse me?" Her eyes narrow. "Boring?"
"Disappointing, actually. You told me that anyone who drinks hotel bourbon clearly has more money than sense."
"You do have more money than sense."
There it is. The first crack in her armor. I know this is unprofessional, but fuck, I want to see her—the woman underneath.
"Better. What else?"
"This is ridiculous."
"Is it? You've been tiptoeing around me like I'm going to fire you for breathing wrong. It's exhausting to watch."
"You're my boss."
"Temporarily."
"You're still my boss."
"And you're still the woman who ordered Shirley Temple for the sake of childhood nostalgia."
Her cheeks flush. "Like I said, we are at work."
"No one else is here now. Tell me something true."
For a beat, I think she won't give in, but she glances at my tie and says, "Your tie is expensive and boring, and you probably have twenty identical ones."
"Fifteen, actually. Same pattern, different color."
"Oh, well, that's much better. You probably have them shipped from your personal tailor in Italy."
"He's in Boston, and he hand-delivers them himself."
Vivian's jaw hangs open. "Now it makes so much sense you'd pay for overpriced bourbon."
A grin splits my face, and I laugh. The tension in the room shifts, not disappearing but changing quality. Less sharp, more electric.
"Welcome back, Vivian. I thought I lost you."
Vivian shakes her head, but she's fighting a smile. "You really are a nightmare boss."
"And you're finally interesting again."
"I was never not interesting. Just ask Jaden, Lea, or even Levi."
"You were beige for three days straight."
"Beige is professional."
"Yes, but no one looks at a box of crayons and picks beige."
"Strong opinions from someone who wears boring ties."
"Okay, fair enough."
She picks up her pen and starts tapping it against the table. "What do you like then?"
The question catches me off guard. "Honestly?"
"Honestly."
"I like the woman who wasn't afraid to voice her opinions while wearing a dress that should have been illegal and looking like every man's wet dream."
Her tongue peeks at the corner of her mouth as she fiddles with her earring. "That woman was having a very weird night."
"What made it weird?"
"She was dreading Monday morning."
"Why?"
"Because she'd heard terrible things about her new temporary boss."
"Such as?"
"That he was demanding and humorless and made people cry."
"Do I seem humorless to you? Have I made anyone cry yet?"
Vivian smirks. "No. You're trying to be humorless and failing."
"Failing how?"
"Your side comments are actually pretty funny, and you look like you try very hard not to smile."
She's right. I can feel it tugging at the corner of my mouth right now. "Maybe I have reasons to smile."
"Such as?"
"Such as you finally stopped calling me Mr. Astor every other sentence."
"I'm still calling you Mr. Astor."
"Not in the last five minutes."
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. Her forehead furrows, and her cheeks redden. "This is exactly why I was being careful."
"Because you might accidentally treat me like a human being?"
"Because this is how we got into trouble the first time."
"Trouble?"
"You know what I mean."
I stand up and walk around to her side of the table. She doesn't back away, but her fingers tighten on the pen. "What kind of trouble?"
"The kind where I wake up in a strange hotel room with no memory of how I got there."
"You remember exactly how you got there and every minute since. You drank Shirley Temple."
"That's not the point."
"What is the point?"
She looks up at me, and for the first time in three days, there's no professional mask. Just Vivian, flustered and sharp and trying to hold her ground. "The point is that we're supposed to be working."
"We are working."
"This isn't working."
"This is the most productive conversation we've had all week."
"Productive how?"
"I'm finally getting straight answers out of you."
Vivian rolls her eyes. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything, but we can start with why you ignored my texts."
"Because texting your boss about how hot he is seems like a career-limiting move. HR would have a field day."
"I'm not your boss for much longer."
"Seven more days."
"You've been counting."
"Of course I've been counting."
"Why?"
Vivian darts her eyes to the windows then to my shoulders. She sinks her teeth into her lower lip, and the small action sends heat straight through me, my groin tightening all of a sudden. "Because this is torture."
"What is?"
"Sitting and working so close to you. Pretending I don't remember how you felt like. Acting professional when all I can think about is—"
She cuts herself off, but it's too late. Whatever fragile pretense we've been maintaining for days finally snaps.
My voice drops an octave. "Go on, Vivian. Continue what you were saying. What you can think about is what?"
"Matthew."
"Answer the question, Vivian."
"You know the answer."