Chapter 7
Laura
The chandelier crystals tinkles above as I step into the grand ballroom, my heels clicking on the marble floor. I smooth the front of my red satin dress and take a steadying breath.
After a week of planning, the charity gala is here. But my nerves aren’t because of the event itself. No, they are all thanks to the man walking in beside me.
Mr. De La Cruz cuts a dashing figure in his tux, his tall frame filling out the classic cut to perfection. I risk a glance up at him and had to stifle a gasp. He shaved for the occasion, revealing a firm jaw and dimpled chin I’ve never seen before.
Good grief, he looks like a movie star. How am I supposed to concentrate when my boss turned out to be secret eye-candy?
I tear my gaze away and survey the room, desperate for a distraction. Crystal chandeliers light up the high ceilings in a warm golden glow and round tables drape in ivory linens to fill the space, each set for eight.
“Quite the production,” Mr. De La Cruz rumbles, glancing around with an approving eye. “You’ve outdone yourself, Stevens.”
I flush under the praise, equal parts pleased and annoyed at how easily he can discompose me. “Thank you, sir, but it was a team effort. Shall we greet the guests?”
He tucks my hand into the crook of his arm, an intimate gesture that makes my heart stutter. “Lead the way.”
As we make our rounds, I grow aware of how well we complement each other. His presence is commanding yet unobtrusive, allowing me to shine as a hostess while still deferring to him as my escort.
I face the truth. Against all odds, the man I once found so intimidating now feels like a perfect partner in crime. And as the first strains of music fill the room, I hope the night would never end.
We take our seats at the head table as the first course is served, a seasonal salad with goat cheese croquettes.
“This is lovely,” Mr. De La Cruz says, eyeing his plate. “You have excellent taste, Stevens.”
“As do you,” I say before I can stop myself. His gaze flickers up, a smile tugging at his lips. My cheeks flame and hastily add, “In music, I mean. You were right about the string quartet being a perfect choice.”
“Were we not just discussing your penchant for Tchaikovsky?” he asks, a teasing lilt to his voice. “I believe you compared his symphonies to ‘audible chocolate.’”
I groan, mortified he remembered my fanciful turn of phrase. “Please forget I said that. I’m afraid I get a bit carried away at times.”
“Nonsense. I find your passion refreshing.” His eyes glint with amusement and something warmer, more intimate. “And your analogy was quite apt. His music is decadent, layered, meant to be savored.”
My heart stutters at the intent in his gaze. I duck my head to hide my blush, fiddling with my napkin to buy time. Is it possible he views me as more than his assistant? The idea both thrills and terrifies me.
Our conversation turn to lighter topics as the meal progresses.
Beneath the polite veneer, something is simmering between us, waiting to be uncovered.
The thought makes me tremble with nerves and anticipation.
By the time we rise to open the floor for dancing, I can scarcely breathe.
Whatever this is between us, the night is no longer ending soon enough.
As the band begins the first strains of Moonlight Sonata, Mr. De La Cruz turns to me. “Would you care to dance, Ms. Stevens?”
I stare up at him, stunned. “I’m afraid I don’t know how.”
“Nonsense.” He grasps my hand and waist, pulling me close. “Just follow my lead.”
His cologne envelopes me as we move across the floor, my heart pounding so loudly I am certain he can hear it. But if he did, there is no indication, gazing down at me with a soft smile.
“You’re a natural,” he murmurs. My steps falter at the praise, warmth flooding my cheeks.
“Only because I have such a capable partner,” I say. His hand tightens on my waist and I bite back a gasp.
When the song ends, I expect him to release me. Instead, he draws me closer. “The auction begins soon. Why don’t you go freshen up while I see to the final arrangements?”
I nod, disappointment warring with relief as he steps away. My skin still tingles where he’d held me and I press my hands there, trying to contain the sensation.
What am I doing? This is my boss, a man known for his aloofness and indifference. I am reading too much into simple politeness, letting my imagination run away with me.
With a sigh, I make my way to the restroom to collect myself. By the time I emerge, the auction is in full swing and Mr. De La Cruz is engrossed in conversation across the room. As if sensing my gaze, he glances up, offering a brief smile and nod before returning his attention to his guest.
The earlier warmth fades, replaced by stinging embarrassment.
I have been a fool to think, even for a moment, that I am special enough to pierce his detached facade.
My place is by his side as his assistant, nothing more.
Resolved, I straighten my shoulders and move to join him, shielding my hurt behind a professional mask.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur, and before I know it, we are saying our goodbyes in the parking lot.
The ballroom is awash with color and sound. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the crowd, the light glinting off jewelry and champagne flutes. Classical music plays in the background, the melody light and airy. Laughter and conversation flows together, a sea of mingled voices.
Mr. De La Cruz guides me through the throng, his hand a warm presence at my back. I swallow, hyperaware of his touch and the scent of his cologne. Get a grip, Laura. He is just being polite.
A few attendees greet us, complimenting the event. Mr. De La Cruz accepts their praise with a gracious nod, though his eyes remain cool and detached. I plaster on a smile, making small talk and steering the conversations back to the charity and its mission.
One couple scrutinizes me with unveiled curiosity, their gazes flickering between me and Mr. De La Cruz. The woman’s lips curl in a knowing smirk that makes me blush. I clear my throat, eager to escape their avid stares.
“If you’ll excuse us,” Mr. De La Cruz says. He guides me away, irritation etched in the tight line of his mouth.
“Nosy socialites,” he mutters. “Pay them no mind.”
“Of course.” I resist the urge to look back at the couple. “The important thing is we raised a good amount for the charity tonight.”
“We did.” His expression softens. “You did well, Ms. Stevens. I don’t say it enough, but your work is invaluable to me.”
Warmth blooms in my chest at his praise. I duck my head, hoping the dim light hides my pleased smile. “Thank you, sir. I’m happy to help in any way I can.”
His hand squeezes my back for a moment. “I know. And it’s appreciated.”
Our gazes catch and hold, a wealth of unspoken words hovering between us.
He glances away, the shutters closing over his eyes once more. The memory of his touch fades, and I am left with only the lingering ache in my heart.
I shake off the strange melancholy and force a smile. “Shall we mingle some more, or would you like to head out?”
“I think we’ve done our duty for the evening.” He checks his watch. “Unless there’s someone else you need to speak with?”
“No, I’m ready to call it a night.” I stifle a yawn behind my hand. It has been a long day preparing for the gala, and the heels I chose are pinching my feet into something awful. All I want is to kick them off, change into pajamas and veg out in front of the TV.
Mr. De La Cruz nods and steers us toward the exit. I bid goodnight to a few more guests on our way out, but my heart isn’t in it.
Outside, the driver hops out of the town car to open the door for us. The cool night air is a relief after the stuffy ballroom, scented with the promise of rain.
Mr. De La Cruz hesitates, glancing between me and the car.
“Goodnight, Ms. Stevens. Thank you again for all your hard work.”
“Goodnight, sir.” I duck into the car, hiding my disappointment. It seems I will enjoy a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream instead of a fancy cocktail tonight.
As the car pulls away from the curb, Mr. De La Cruz is still standing there in the glow of the streetlights, gazing after us with an unreadable expression.
What is that about? I lean my head back with a sigh, realizing I am no closer to figuring out my enigmatic boss than when I first started working for him. The man is an absolute mystery.
One I find myself determined to solve.
The next day at work, I am distracted by thoughts of the previous evening. Mr. De La Cruz has been in a good mood, complimenting my work and crack a few jokes.
My boss is mercurial on the best of days. There is no point trying to analyze his behavior or search for hidden meaning.
When Mr. De La Cruz summons me into his office, I brace myself for his usual brusque manner to have returned. But he greets me with a smile and says, “The charity reported that last night’s event raised over $200,000. I wanted you to be the first to know, since you worked so hard to organize it.”
“That’s wonderful news!” I say, stunned. “Thank you for telling me. I’m so glad it was such a success.”
“As am I.” His gaze turns soft. “You did an excellent job, Ms. Stevens. I’m proud of you.”
Heat floods my cheeks at the praise. Coming from a man as demanding and sparing with compliments as Mr. De La Cruz, those words mean the world. I didn’t know how to respond, so I say, “Thank you, sir. I appreciate you saying so.”
“You’re most welcome.” He clears his throat and shuffles some papers on his desk, the moment of vulnerability passing. “That will be all.”
I nod and make for the door, unable to keep a smile from my face. It seems I will have to revise my view of Mr. De La Cruz. There are hidden depths to the man yet to be explored.
I leave the office in a haze of giddy excitement, my heart doing cartwheels in my chest. All the stress and hard work organizing the charity event paid off in more ways than one.
Not only had it been a rousing success, but it gave me a glimpse into the complex man behind the imposing figure of my boss.
As I walk to the elevator, our bond last night over a shared love of classical music, laughing and chatting with an ease I never would have expected. The memory of his proud smile and praise makes me blush again.
The elevator doors slide open, interrupting my reverie. I step inside, leaning back against the wall with a sigh. What is happening here? I have never felt this way about a boss before. But then, Mr. De La Cruz is unlike any boss I’ve had.
The doors open again on the ground floor, and I make my way out of the building, deep in thought.
By the time I arrive at my apartment, I realize that both thrills and terrifies me: I am developing feelings for my demanding yet fascinating boss.
What that might mean for our working relationship, I do not know.