Chapter 4
Natalie
By four fifty-two, I have spent so much energy trying to avoid thinking about Jordan Richmond that thinking about Jordan Richmond has become my main activity, which feels unfair, unproductive, and possibly bad for my blood pressure.
The man has behaved like a professional all afternoon.
A normal professional.
A deeply irritating professional.
After Lydia and Wesley left, he went into his noon shelter placement meeting like announcing he was my plus one, booking a presidential suite, and rearranging my life before lunch were all perfectly reasonable things for a man to do on a Tuesday.
When he came back, he asked for the Winterglow Heights file in a voice so calm I almost wondered if I had imagined the whole thing.
I had not imagined it.
My phone had thirteen unanswered texts from Lydia to prove it.
At two, he disappeared into conference prep with the Turner brothers, and while he was still in that meeting, a delivery bag arrived at my desk with my name on the receipt.
Inside was grilled chicken with lemon rice, roasted vegetables, and a strawberry tart tucked into a little white box.
The tart nearly ended me.
Last week, Maribel brought a bakery box to my desk, and I may have said I would commit light crimes for the last strawberry tart. Jordan knowing that detail makes no sense, unless he heard me from his office.
I am almost sure he had not.
Almost.
Right after the delivery arrived, my phone buzzed.
A text from Jordan.
Eat. You’ll need the energy tonight.
I read it once, then twice, then a third time, hoping the words would become less dangerous if I stared at them long enough.
They only became worse after his five-thirty investor dinner disappeared from his calendar at three forty-one.
The invite had been there earlier. Then it was gone.
Canceled by J.R.
I stared at the updated calendar for a full minute while my stomach forgot it had food in it.
Since then, he has passed my desk twice.
Both times, he was calm, distant, and devastatingly uninterested in my personal collapse.
He did not touch me, did not look at my mouth, and did not say anything about practicing, the presidential suite, or the fact that he had threatened my ability to survive the evening with one text message.
Which is good.
Responsible.
Exactly what should happen between a CEO and his secretary after a morning full of fake-dating insanity and emotional property damage.
So why does it make me want to throw a stapler at his very broad back?
I glance at the clock again.
Four fifty-three.
Time is moving like it has been injured.
Most of the executive floor has already emptied.
One of the reception assistants left ten minutes ago with a cheerful “good night” that felt wildly inappropriate considering my meltdown.
The legal team is gone. The phones are quiet.
Outside the glass walls, Lovestone Ridge is still bright with June sunshine, which feels personally rude.
A woman should not have to combust in full daylight.
My phone buzzes.
Lydia again.
I flip it facedown without reading the message.
I have reached my sister limit for the day, and that limit was actually reached somewhere around “You won’t need an extra seat, will you?”
My computer screen reflects my face back at me.
Wide eyes. Pink cheeks. Hair trying to escape its clip. The look of a woman who is absolutely fine, provided no one asks questions, breathes near her, or opens the door to Jordan Richmond’s office.
The door to Jordan Richmond’s office opens.
Fantastic.
Every muscle in my body forgets how to function.
He fills the doorway, jacket off now, shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms, tie loosened at his throat. The suit was bad enough when it made him look like a powerful man with money, control, and excellent tailoring.
This version is worse.
This version looks like he has finished being civilized for the day.
His green-silver eyes settle on me.
“Miss Mullen.”
My name comes out formal.
Professional.
Terrifying.
I sit up too straight. “Yes?”
“My office.”
Two words, and my knees behave like they have received a formal invitation to give up.
I stand, smooth my dress, then immediately regret smoothing my dress because his gaze drops for half a second.
Only half.
I still feel it.
“Did I do something wrong?” I ask, which is a stupid question considering the entire day, my sister’s visit, the presidential suite, and the text message currently burned into my memory like evidence in a very sexy crime.
His expression does not change. “Come here.”
Oh.
That is worse.
That is so much worse.
I walk toward him with what I hope is dignity and what is probably the energy of a woman being escorted toward her own doom by a very attractive executioner.
He steps aside to let me in.
I pass close enough to catch the scent of him, something clean and expensive with cedar underneath it, and my thoughts immediately become less useful.
His office is quiet. The mountain view stretches bright and green behind his desk. The contracts are stacked neatly where I left them earlier, which is rude of them. Paperwork should not get to witness this.
Jordan closes the door.
The click is soft.
My pulse is not.
I turn around too quickly. “So, I thought about it, and practicing can mean a lot of things. We could practice our story first. That seems smart. Very practical. We need details, right? When we started dating, how it happened, why I never mentioned you to anyone, why you never mentioned me, why my sister will probably need medical attention when she realizes you’re serious about the presidential suite. ”
He says nothing.
He starts toward me with the kind of slow, steady patience that makes my nervous system want to file a complaint.
I step back before I can stop myself.
His eyes drop to my feet, then return to my face.
“Also,” I continue, because panic has taken control of my mouth and is now building a presentation, “we should probably discuss public behavior. Hand-holding. Arm-touching. Waist-touching, which you already seem very comfortable with. Maybe a maximum touch duration. I can make a chart.”
His mouth almost moves.
Almost.
I cling to that tiny almost-smile like a lifeboat.
“You make charts for touching?” he asks.
“I make charts for many things.”
“I know.”
That stops me long enough for my next step back to meet the hard edge of his desk.
My ass hits it with a little jolt that travels straight up my spine.
Jordan keeps coming until he is close enough for me to see the stubble along his jaw and the way his throat moves when he breathes.
He does not touch me. He only places one hand on the desk beside my hip, then the other on my other side, trapping me between his body and the desk like he planned the whole thing from the first step.
Trapped.
Technically, I could move.
Emotionally, I have become furniture.
His body blocks the room. His forearms flex where his sleeves are rolled, and my brain makes an unhelpful little sound that I am grateful stays internal.
“Miss Mullen,” he says.
That formal voice should help.
It does not.
“Yes?”
“You talk a lot when you’re nervous.”
“I talk all the time.”
“More when you’re nervous.”
I swallow. “That sounds like something from my file.”
His eyes hold mine. “I don’t need a file for that.”
My chest warms in a way that annoys me.
“Then maybe you should stop making me nervous.”
“No.”
I blink. “No?”
“No.”
There is no apology in his voice. No teasing either. Just that blunt, immovable Jordan Richmond certainty.
My hands curl around the edge of his desk behind me. “You canceled your investor dinner.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“For you.”
The words land low in my stomach.
I should say something clever. Something bubbly and bright and safe.
I have nothing.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and the air in the office changes. It thickens. Warms. Turns dangerous around the edges.
“You think a story is the only thing we need to practice for,” he says.
My fingers tighten on the desk. “Isn’t it?”
“If a story were enough, I would have given you one and sent you home.”
My breath catches.
“What else is there?”
His hands slide closer on the desk, his body leaning in until his voice brushes over my skin.
“Being convincing.”
That should not sound filthy.
It does.
I lick my lips, then wish I had not when his eyes track the movement.
“Convincing in what sense?”
“As a couple.”
Heat climbs my neck, and I suddenly become very aware of how close he is, how wide his shoulders are, and how little air exists between his chest and mine.
“That sounds like a very vague lesson plan,” I whisper.
“It isn’t.”
“Do I get a syllabus?”
“No.”
“That feels unfair.”
His gaze stays on my mouth for one more second before lifting back to my eyes. “You already know the problem.”
“I do?”
“You flinch when I touch you.”
“I do not flinch.”
He only looks at me.
Fine. Maybe I do. A little. A reasonable amount. A woman can only be publicly claimed by her terrifying boss so many times before her nervous system starts making executive decisions without consulting her.
“I was surprised,” I say.
“You’ll be surprised at the wedding too.”
“That seems likely.”
“Then we fix it now.”
My heart trips.
I nod too quickly. “Then we should probably start with the story.”
“We’ll get to the story later. We need something else first.”
“What comes first?”
His gaze holds mine, steady and dark with something that makes my pulse lose all respect for rhythm.
“You.”
I forget how to breathe.
Jordan tilts his head slightly, studying my face like every thought I have is written there in neon marker.
Maybe it is.
His voice drops lower.
“First lesson, Natalie. If we’re going to make them believe you’re mine, you need to learn what it feels like when I touch you.”