Chapter 6
Chapter six
Olivia
Working for Wesley is surprisingly easy. The systems are manageable, and Wesley himself is a hands-off kind of boss, quick meetings, clear expectations, then silence. I fall into a rhythm faster than I expected, and by the time the clock hits five, I barely register the end of the day.
I head toward the elevators, digging through my purse for my phone, and slam into a wall of muscle.
Broderick.
I step back.
“Hey, you,” he says with a smile too pretty for how casual he makes it seem, like he knows exactly what it does, flashing those perfect teeth under all that golden-boy charm.
I blink, cheeks flushing before I can stop it.
Focus, Olivia.
“Hey,” I say, trying to play it cool as I keep rummaging. My thumb hovers over the ride share app.
Before I can tap it, a hand closes gently over mine.
“Don’t,” he says. “I’ll take you home.”
I glance up, hesitating. “Broderick—”
“Brody,” he corrects smoothly. “You can call me Brody. We’ve been neighbors for, what, a year?”
“Two,” I admit, a little sheepish.
He laughs softly. “Even more reason to let me give you a ride.”
I hesitate again. He’s nice to look at, but he’s also the kind of guy who probably grew up being voted ‘Most Likely to Break Hearts.’ And while he’s always been polite in passing, he never really looked at me like this before.
Then again… I had a boyfriend until a year ago, and he had some girl who practically lived in his apartment for months.
It was never like this.
Still. I need this job. I need to stay focused. And saying yes to a ride shouldn’t feel like this big of a decision.
“…Alright,” I say finally, sliding my phone back into my purse. “But only because the app is surging.”
He grins wider. “Sure. Blame it on the app.”
The drive is quiet at first, not awkward, just… calm. Brody keeps one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually across the gearshift. His profile catches the evening light just right, sharp jawline, golden-boy cheekbones, and lashes way too long for a man.
I stare out the window, trying to slow my racing thoughts.
I have a job. My first day wasn’t a disaster.
Rent extension is due soon and I still have no idea how I’m going to pull that off.
“You settled in okay?” Brody asks, his voice breaking through my spiral.
“Yeah,” I say. “Everyone was… nice.”
“Wesley’s good people,” he says with a nod. “War and Wilder are a bit much, but they’re not terrible once you get to know them.”
I hum noncommittally. I don’t know anything about any of them. Except that Warren watched me today like he was trying to read my blood type through my clothes.
By the time we reach our apartment building, the sun is dipping lower, casting long shadows across the lobby. We step into the elevator together. The air shifts the second the doors close.
Tighter. Closer.
He turns toward me, one hand braced against the wall, angled just enough to keep the mood casual, but it doesn’t quite work.
“So…” he says slowly. “Any chance you’d want to grab lunch sometime?”
I blink. “Like, lunch lunch?”
He chuckles. “Yeah. The kind with food.”
My stomach flips, and not because I’m swooning. Because this is not the time. I’m barely scraping by. I just started this job, and dating? That’s a luxury I can’t afford.
I look up at him, my bottom lip caught between my teeth. “Brody… I’m not really looking for anything right now. I just, I need to focus on work, and rent, and…”
He holds up a hand. “Got it. Respect. No pressure.”
The elevator dings. We step out into the hallway, that quiet space between our two doors. My hand is already fishing in my purse for my key when he speaks again.
“But how about lunch at the office?” he offers. “You can come up to my floor, eat in my office. No pressure. Just food.”
I glance at him. He’s leaning against the wall, grinning, not smug, just easy.
Effortless.
Something in me wavers. It’s not just the offer. It’s the way he’s asking.
Like he actually wants me there.
Like this isn’t a game.
I bite the inside of my cheek, heart doing that stupid flutter thing again.
Maybe this is a bad idea.
But maybe... it isn’t. I could use a friend.
“…Okay,” I say softly. “Sure. Lunch at the office.”
His smile deepens. “Cool. I’ll see you then.”
He nods, gives me that charming half-grin that makes my stomach twist for a whole different reason, then unlocks his door and disappears inside.
I finally find my key, slip inside my apartment, and close the door with a soft click. The quiet hits me all at once.
I drop my bag, lean back against the door, and exhale.
Lunch.
It’s just lunch.
Right?
***
By the time my phone buzzes, the morning is already gone. Work with Wesley is smooth, rhythmic, I’ve started to find a groove that makes the hours pass without friction.
I blink down at the message:
Broderick
You still down for lunch? Floor 40. Come hungry.
Floor 40?
My stomach dips a little. Isn’t that…?
I press the elevator button and try not to overthink it. Lunch. It’s just lunch.
But when the doors open on floor 40, the air changes.
Literally, it’s colder up here. Sleeker. More expensive. The floors are marble, not tile or linoleum. The walls are glass. It feels less like an office building and more like a throne room.
Wesley’s domain is comfortable. This?
This is Warren Beaumont’s.
I step out, heels clicking, trying to walk with purpose as I make my way toward Brody’s office. I remind myself he invited me. That this is normal. I’m allowed to be here.
But that sensation creeps in again.
Eyes.
Watching.
Burning.
I slow, my gaze drifting, against my better judgment, toward the darkened doorway halfway down the hall.
Warren Beaumont stands there, one hand on the doorframe, his posture deceptively relaxed. But his stare?
Sharp. Calculated. Assessing.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.
Just watches.
I lift my chin slightly and nod; polite, professional, but he doesn’t return it.
He just keeps looking at me like I don’t belong here.
Like he’s deciding what to do about it.
I turn away, pulse jumping as I continue down the hall and knock on Brody’s door. It opens immediately.
“Hey,” Brody says, smiling. “Right on time.”
I smile, but it’s thinner than I mean it to be. “Yeah… sorry, I almost forgot.”
His brow lifts, concerned. “Everything okay?”
I nod, stepping inside quickly.
But I can still feel Warren’s stare on my back as Brody closes the door.
His office is brighter than I expected, lots of windows, clean lines, a few personal touches. A leather couch near the corner, a coffee machine that probably costs a small fortune, and two neatly arranged bags of takeout on his desk.
“La Serenata?” I blink in surprise, stepping closer as the scent hits me. Basil, tomato, garlic, and freshly baked bread. “That’s my favorite place.”
He grins as he unpacks the food. “I know.”
My brows lift. “How?”
“You gave me cookies a few weeks ago; remember? The ones in the little white box?”
I nod slowly, suddenly self-conscious. “You noticed the box?”
He laughs softly. “Olivia, I’d notice anything you gave me. But yeah, I recognized the takeout container. It still had the logo stamped on the bottom.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Wow. That’s… observant.”
He shrugs, sliding a soup toward me and setting the sandwich beside it. “Or maybe I just really liked the cookies.”
I smile despite myself. “I could give you the recipe.”
He leans back in his chair, eyes warm. “Or…” he says, drawing the word out, “we could make them together sometime.”
My pulse flutters, but I keep my smile in place, soft and noncommittal. “We’ll see.”
Lunch is easy.
Comfortable. We talk about the city, old jobs, places we’ve both lived. He tells me a ridiculous story about one of his clients refusing to leave a showing until they lit sage in every room. I laugh so hard I almost choke on my soup.
It’s the first time I’ve felt normal in weeks.
No pressure. No tension.
Just… good.
A knock breaks the moment.
Brody glances at the door, then at the clock. “Still got time.”
“I can go,” I say, standing quickly and brushing off my skirt. “I should get back anyway—”
“It’s fine,” he says, already crossing the room.
He opens the door.
And my breath catches.
Warren Beaumont.
He doesn’t step inside. Doesn’t smile.
Just stands there, tall, dark, imposing, his broad frame nearly eclipsing the hallway light behind him. All sharp lines and colder shadows, he towers in the doorway like a warning dressed in a tailored suit.
His eyes land straight on me.
My whole body tenses.
Brody doesn’t seem to notice the shift in temperature. “War, what’s up?”
Warren’s gaze doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
“Didn’t know you had company,” he says coolly.
The words are neutral. The tone? Anything but.
“I was just leaving,” I say, already gathering the remains of my lunch, my voice a little too light.
Warren doesn’t budge. He’s like a skyscraper filling a skyline; bigger than he has any right to be.
His eyes flick to the sandwich wrapper in my hand before landing back on my face. Cold. Calculating.
“Beaumont Enterprises has a very clear HR policy about fraternization during work hours.”
The words hit like a slap.
My throat tightens.
“It was just—lunch,” I fumble, heat blooming in my cheeks.
Brody steps in smoothly, his voice cool but clipped. “I know the rules, War.”
There’s something sharper in his tone now. Not friendly. Not deferential.
Warren’s jaw ticks once.
Brody turns to me, gently herding me toward the door. “See you later, Liv.”
I nod quickly, eyes down, my face hot as I head for the exit.
But Warren still doesn’t move.
He’s just there, filling the doorway like a boulder in my path.
I hesitate, pulse stuttering. He doesn’t say a word.
I have to tilt my head back just to meet his eyes.
His eyes drag over me slowly. Judgmental. Displeased.
I shift awkwardly. “Excuse me.”
He shifts slightly to the side.
I edge around him, my shoulder nearly brushing his chest, my breath catching as I finally clear the doorway.
His voice comes, low and barely audible, like a warning meant only for me.
“You’ve got crumbs on your blouse.” His gaze drags lower, slow and deliberate. “Messy.”
I still.
“Thank you for the reminder, Mr. Beaumont,“ I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
I smooth my blouse, even though it’s pointless, the damage is already done.
My fingertips brush over the faint smear of crumbs on the fabric and shame crawls up my throat like a second skin.
He doesn’t say anything. He just stares.
Watching me.
Weighing me.
Judging me.
I lift my chin, summon whatever scraps of pride I have left, and walk away—measured, steady, like I’m not unraveling with every step.
Like he didn’t just humiliate me with a few fucking crumbs.
I don’t look back as I walk away.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.