Chapter 15 Attracted to HR Violations #2
My jaw ticks. “Why.”
Harlee’s fingers tighten around her tablet. “Because I didn’t know who you were.”
I still. “You knew my name.”
“I knew you were August.” She gestures vaguely, like my name is the least helpful detail of all time. “Not… James. Not Mister CEO James. Not the man whose logo is on every floor I work on and whose decisions pay checks.”
She says it like she’s annoyed at herself for not clocking it sooner. Like it offends her intelligence.
It still doesn’t fix the part that bruises.
“So the solution was erasing me.”
Her eyes sharpen. “The solution was not getting attached to a stranger I slept with once.”
I laugh once, humorless. “Once?”
Her gaze flickers. Just for a second. Like she remembers the exact way once felt.
Then she locks back in. “Yes. Once.”
I lean forward, forearms on the desk. Adult now. Controlled now. “You could’ve said that.”
“You mean I could’ve sent a mature text message like, ‘Hey, I enjoyed the sex, but I’m panicking because my life is on fire and I don’t date and you’re too charming and I don’t trust men who look like you could ruin me with a smile?’”
My brows lift.
Harlee lifts hers right back. “You want honesty? That’s honesty.”
My throat tightens. I hate how much I respect it.
I tap the tablet once. Reset. “Okay. Here’s the honesty you’re going to get from me.”
Her gaze doesn’t move.
I keep going anyway.
“This is not a romance novel.” I gesture to the office around us. Glass. Clean lines. A whole building full of witnesses. “This is my company. You’re an employee. That’s the reality, and it matters.”
Harlee’s mouth pulls to the side. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you know it and you’re still standing in my office saying ‘one-night stand’ like it’s a punchline.”
Her eyes flash. “Because if I don’t make it a joke, it turns into something else.”
Something else.
The air shifts. Thickens.
I sit back, because proximity is dangerous, and I’m not going to be the man who pretends he forgot that.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I say, voice low and even. “We’re going to name the problem like adults.”
Harlee’s gaze stays on me. “Okay.”
“You and I shouldn’t be alone together,” I say. “Not like this. Not in closed-door meetings. Not while we’re still… reactive.”
Her eyebrows lift a fraction. “Reactive.”
“I’m choosing the polite word.” I pause. “The real word is ‘reckless.’”
She exhales, and the smallest crack shows in her composure. Not fear. Not guilt.
Relief.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
That surprises me more than anything.
“For what?” I ask.
“For not pretending this is normal.” She swallows, then adds, sharper, like she hates being soft: “For not acting like I’m crazy for being freaked out.”
My ego wants to say: You made me crazy first. My better judgment says: Don’t.
So I nod once. “You’re not crazy.”
Her eyes hold mine. “And you’re not… mad?”
I let out a breath. This is the part where the truth bites.
“I’m not forgiving you,” I say plainly.
The words land heavy in the room.
Harlee blinks once. “Okay.”
“I’m not punishing you either,” I add, because that’s important. “But yes, my trust is bruised. My ego’s bruised. I’m standing here trying to understand how we go from… that night… to you disappearing and then showing up in my building like a board agenda item.”
Her lips part like she wants to argue, then she thinks better of it.
She nods once. “I get that.”
“Good.” I flip open the tablet, because if I don’t grab a document, I might grab something else. “Now, logistics.”
Harlee’s gaze flicks to the device. “Logistics.”
“Yes.” I scan the page like I’m reading, even though I’m mostly just buying myself structure. “You report to Finance. Naomi is your department manager. That doesn’t change.”
“I know,” she says.
“We keep everything appropriate,” I continue. “Documented. Aboveboard. If there’s ever a question about access or intent, the answer needs to be obvious.”
Harlee’s chin lifts. “So we’re quarantining each other.”
“We’re protecting you,” I correct, immediate. “Because you’re the one with the least power in this equation. That’s what makes it dangerous.”
Her throat moves. “You’re saying that like you actually mean it.”
“I do.” I pause, then say the part that matters most. “If anyone finds out about us, it doesn’t land on my reputation first. It lands on yours.”
Harlee’s gaze drops to her device, and her fingers press into the edges like it’s the only thing holding her upright.
“Exactly,” she whispers.
My chest tightens in a way I don’t like.
“Tell me what you need,” I say, quieter. “Right now. Not emotionally. Practically.”
Harlee inhales. Lets it out slow. “I need this job.”
I nod once. “Okay.”
“I’m here through the university,” she continues, voice steadying as she gets into facts. Facts are safer. “It’s part of my program. If I lose the placement, I don’t graduate this spring. It’s… not optional.”
There it is. The real stake. The reason she’s bracing.
I nod again, once. “You’re not losing it.”
Her eyes snap up. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can promise I’m not firing you,” I say. “And I can promise I’m not going to put you in situations where you feel like your future depends on managing my feelings.”
Harlee stares at me for a long beat, like she’s trying to figure out where the trap is.
Then she lets out a breath she’s been holding for weeks. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I echo.
Silence again. Different now. Still charged, but cleaner. Like we just disinfected a wound and it still burns.
Harlee shifts in her seat. “So what do we do about… the elephant.”
“The elephant stays in the room,” I say flatly. “We just stop feeding it.”
Her mouth twitches. “You’re making metaphors now.”
“I’m trying not to commit crimes,” I mutter.
That earns me something close to a smile. Almost.
And because the universe hates me, that almost-smile hits like a body shot.
I shouldn’t notice how good she looks. I do anyway. The glasses. The tucked-in shirt. The quiet confidence.
My brain, traitorous: ‘You look…’My mouth, smarter: “You’re put together.”
Harlee’s eyes narrow slightly. “That sounds like a compliment disguised as a performance review.”
“It’s an observation,” I say, too quickly.
“Mm.” She leans back, studying me. “You’re being good.”
The way she says it lands. Deliberate. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
My pulse kicks.
She’s making it very hard to stay mad at her.
My hands tighten slightly around the tablet. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” she asks, all innocence—like she didn’t just flick a match.
“Don’t test the boundaries,” I say, voice low. Controlled. “Not today.”
Harlee’s gaze drops to my mouth. Just for a second.
Then it lifts back to my eyes, like she’s daring me to pretend I didn’t see it.
“I’m not testing,” she says quietly. “I’m… confirming.”
“Confirming what?”
“That you want to kiss me,” she says, like it’s a line item. “And you’re not going to.”
The room goes still.
My entire body does that thing where it votes yes while my brain files an emergency injunction.
I stand, slow. Not aggressive. Just… needing distance before I do something stupid.
Harlee’s eyes track me. “So?”
I take one step around the desk, then stop where the space between us is still safe.
Close enough to feel her heat.
Far enough to stay in control.
“I do,” I admit. “And I’m not going to.”
Her throat moves. “Because you don’t want to.”
“Because I do,” I correct, sharper than I meant. “And if I let that happen in here, then what are we? Two adults making a decision, or a headline waiting to happen?”
Harlee’s lips part. She looks like she wants to argue.
Instead, she whispers, “It wouldn’t be a headline if you didn’t own the company.”
There’s the imbalance again, named with teeth.
I nod once, jaw tight. “Exactly.”
She leans forward. One movement. That’s all.
And it changes everything.
Her perfume hits me, clean and warm, like something I’m not allowed to touch.
I can see her lashes up close. The slight sheen on her lip gloss. The way she’s holding herself still like if she moves too much, she’ll fall into me.
My hands flex at my sides.
Harlee’s voice is barely sound. “So what am I supposed to do with this?”
“With what,” I ask, even though I know.
“With you,” she says. “With the fact that you’re… here. In my life. In my career. With the fact that I didn’t know and now I do.”
The honesty in her voice punches a hole in my control.
I take a breath. Then another. Then I do the thing I don’t want to do.
I step back.
Harlee’s face tightens for a second. Not rejection. Not pride.
Just… tension.
I glance toward the glass wall. Toward the hallway beyond it. Toward the world that would love to interpret this wrong.
Then I look back at her and let my voice go calm again.
“This is what you do,” I say. “You do your job. You graduate. You keep your head down. You don’t let anyone imply you’re here because of me.”
Harlee’s eyes glint. “And what do you do?”
I swallow. That question is the real one.
I stare at her for a long beat, and when I answer, it’s not smooth. It’s not charming.
It’s honest.
“I figure out how to sit across from you in a company I built,” I say, “and not reach for what I want.”
Harlee’s breath catches.
The space between us hums.
And there it is. The near-miss. The gravity. The moment where we could both lean in and destroy everything.
I don’t.
I turn back toward my desk, pick up my device, and pretend that my palms aren’t sweaty.
Then I look at her again, and I end it where it needs to end. Not with closure.
With a question.
“Can you do that?” I ask. “Work here without making me the reason you leave?”
She doesn’t answer immediately.
Because she can’t.
Then Harlee exhales, like she’s bracing herself again. “For what it’s worth… I didn’t block you because I didn’t care.”
I don’t answer right away. Because the truth is complicated.
“I know,” I say finally. “But it still landed.”
She absorbs that. Doesn’t argue.
“I should go,” she says. “Before this turns into something else.”
Smart. God help me, she’s smart.
She stands, device tucked back against her chest, armor reclaimed.
At the door, she hesitates.
“August,” she says, using my name like a test.
I lift my eyes. “In here,” I say, voice leveling out into something controlled, “you call me what everyone calls me.”
Her brows knit.
“James,” I clarify. “Out there, if we ever end up out there again… I’m August.”
The smallest exhale leaves her, like the rules help. Like structure is mercy.
“Okay,” she says.
Then she’s gone.
And I’m left alone with my rules, my coffee, and the kind of quiet that isn’t quiet at all.