Chapter 11
I pull into the parking garage Monday morning with my coffee still steaming in the cup holder, humming along to the radio.
The Serastra campaign timeline is finally coming together.
All the craftsmen confirmed, venue locked in, even the catering sorted.
Everything’s going according to plan for once.
That good mood lasts exactly until I turn the corner toward my parking spot and see a familiar black sedan sitting exactly where my car should be.
Caleb’s car. In my spot.
“Are you kidding me?” I mutter, staring at his sleek vehicle like it personally offended me.
This isn’t just any parking spot—it’s the prime real estate of the garage, close to the elevator and protected from the elements.
I slipped Jerry the security guard fifty bucks two years ago to let me park here instead of my assigned spot at the far end of the garage, and I’ve been paying him twenty dollars every month since to keep it. It’s been my spot ever since.
My spot. That bastard!
I have to drive all the way to the opposite end of the garage to my original assigned spot, my good mood evaporating with every step of the long walk to the elevator. So much for Caleb’s recent two-week streak of professional behavior. I should have known it was too good to last.
By the time I reach the seventh floor, I’m seething. Caleb’s already at his desk, typing away like he hasn’t just committed an act of parking warfare. He doesn’t even look up when I storm through the office doors.
“Really?” I drop my bag on my desk with enough force to rattle my monitor. “My parking spot?”
He glances up with feigned innocence, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “Your parking spot? I didn’t see your name on it.”
“That’s been my spot since I started working here.”
“Huh.” He leans back in his chair, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. “Weird. I parked there, and no one said anything. Maybe it’s first come, first served?”
“I’m never late,” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Weren’t you late today?” He tilts his head. “Because I got here at seven-thirty, and the spot was empty.”
“I wasn’t late. I’m always here at the same time.”
“Which is apparently not early enough.” He smiles insincerely. “Maybe you should adjust your schedule if you want to keep your unofficial parking privileges.”
The casual way he says it makes my blood pressure spike. “You’re being petty and childish.”
“I’m being practical. Good parking spots go to people who show up first.” He turns back to his computer screen. “Basic capitalism, Princess.”
“Don’t call me that.” I sink into my chair, ready to continue this argument, but something’s wrong. The chair drops way too low, and when I try to adjust the height, the lever won’t budge. I’m stuck with my chin practically touching my desk, like a child sitting at the adult table.
“What the hell?” I grab the lever and yank it repeatedly, but nothing happens. The chair is frozen in its lowest position. Caleb doesn’t even glance over, but I can see the slight curve of his lips as he continues typing.
“Having trouble with your chair?” he asks.
“You did something to this.” I keep fighting with the lever, but it’s completely stuck. “I know you did.”
“That’s a serious accusation.” He finally turns to look at me, his expression perfectly innocent. “You’re suggesting I sabotaged office furniture?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
“Prove it.” The challenge in his voice makes my fingers clench around the useless lever. He’s sitting there in his fully functioning chair, looking smug and untouchable, while I’m trapped at desk height like some kind of office troll.
“You know what?” I shoot to my feet, decision made. “Fine.”
I march over to his chair and grab the back of it. “Get up.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Get up. If mine doesn’t work, I’m taking yours.”
“I don’t think so.” He spins the chair away from me, but I grab it again and pull.
“It’s only fair,” I say through gritted teeth, trying to drag the chair out from under him. “You steal my parking spot, you sabotage my chair—”
“I didn’t sabotage anything—”
“Then you won’t mind switching.” I give the chair another yank, but he’s heavy and doesn’t budge.
“Get your own functional furniture.”
“This is my office, too!”
I lean over him to grab the armrests, determined to physically remove him from my rightful chair, but he catches my wrists to stop me.
His grip is firm, unbreakable, and when I try to pull away, I realize with a jolt that I can’t.
He’s so much stronger than I expected, and the complete helplessness of being held in place sends an unwelcome thrill through me that I absolutely refuse to think about.
“Let go of me,” I hiss, trying to pull free and failing completely.
“Stop trying to steal my chair, and I will.”
I lean down further, getting right in his face, testing his grip again and finding it immovable. “It’s not stealing if you sabotaged mine first.”
“Prove that I did.”
We’re nose to nose now, his hands still wrapped around my wrists like steel bands, and I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.
His blue eyes are dark with a visceral hunger, and suddenly the office feels too small, too warm.
I can feel his breath against my cheek, and my pulse starts racing.
The fact that I’m completely at his mercy, that he could hold me here as long as he wants, makes a burning, treacherous excitement ignite in my core.
“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse breathlessly.
“Am I?” His voice is rough, lower than it was a moment ago. His thumbs graze the inner sides of my wrists, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
“You think you’re so clever.”
“I think you’re in my personal space, Princess.” But he doesn’t let go of my wrists. If anything, his grip tightens slightly, pulling me closer, reminding me exactly how easily he can control my movements.
I should back away. I should straighten up and walk back to my broken chair with whatever dignity I have left. Instead, I lean closer, my hair falling forward to brush against his cheek.
“Fix my chair,” I whisper, my lips so close to his ear that I can feel him shiver.
“Make me.”
Suddenly we’re not talking about chairs anymore.
His hands slide up from my wrists to my forearms, and I can feel the heat from his palms through the thin fabric of my blouse.
Every nerve ending in my body is on fire, hyperaware of how close we are, how strong he is, how easy it would be to close the few inches between us and—
“Morning, you two!”
Flora’s cheerful voice cuts through the tension like a knife, and I jerk back so fast I nearly lose my balance. Caleb releases my arms immediately, but the damage is done. My skin is still tingling where he touched me, and I can tell from the way his jaw is clenched, he’s just as affected as I am.
“Good morning, Flora,” I manage, my voice only slightly breathless as I adjust my blouse.
“Everything alright?” Flora looks between us with curious eyes, taking in my flushed cheeks and Caleb’s rigid posture.
“Just discussing office equipment,” Caleb says smoothly, spinning his chair to face his computer screen.
“I see.” Flora doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push. “Well, I brought banana bread again, if anyone’s interested.”
“That sounds lovely,” I say, taking a slice, grateful for the distraction. I retreat to my malfunctioning chair, but when I try to sit down, I remember my predicament and have to perch awkwardly on the edge of the seat.
“Eve?” Flora frowns. “Why are you sitting like that?”
“Chair’s broken,” I mutter, shooting a venomous look at Caleb’s back.
“Oh, dear. We should call maintenance.”
“Yes,” I say pointedly. “We should definitely call someone to investigate what happened to it.”
Caleb’s shoulders shake with what might be laughter, but he doesn’t turn around. The bastard.
I spend the rest of the morning working in the most uncomfortable position known to mankind, my knees nearly touching my chin and my lower back screaming in protest. Every time I shift in the chair, I catch Caleb watching me with a smirk.
I’m going to wipe that smirk off his face today if it’s the last thing I do.
* * *
I’ve finally managed to sweet-talk Fred from Maintenance into bringing me a replacement chair from storage by the time lunch rolls around. My back is thanking me when I settle into the properly functioning seat, though I can feel Caleb’s eyes on me from across our shared workspace.
“Comfortable?” he asks with that insufferable smirk.
“Very.” I don’t look up from my screen. “Thanks for asking.”
“Eve, Caleb.” Iris appears at our desks, tablet in hand and looking more put-together than she has in days. “I need you both at the yacht club at four. Final walkthrough with the venue manager before we lock in the event details.”
“Perfect,” I say, making a note in my calendar. “I’ll confirm with the craftsmen that they can—”
“Oh, man,” Joshua interrupts, rolling his chair over from his desk with obvious excitement. “Did you say yacht club? Please tell me you’re meeting with Marina.”
Iris raises an eyebrow. “Marina Delacroix, yes. Why?”
“I met her last year at that industry networking event,” Joshua grins and pulls out his phone, scrolling through what looks like the yacht club’s website. “Trust me, Caleb, you are not prepared for her. Look at this.”
He holds up his phone, and despite myself, I'm leaning over to get a better look. I have to brace my hands on Caleb’s shoulders to see the screen properly, and the moment I touch him, I feel the muscles beneath his shirt tense.
The woman in the photo is beautiful—long blonde hair, sharp cheekbones, the kind of effortless elegance that comes from generations of old money.
She’s standing on the deck of what looks like a multimillion-dollar yacht, wearing a crisp white blouse, a navy blue pencil skirt, and designer sunglasses.