Yours Temporarily: A Fake Dating Romance (The Office Heartthrobs Book 1)

1. CHAPTER 1

Jeremy

“What do you mean—you’re not so sure?” Shifting in my black leather chair, I press cold fingertips against my temples and try to massage away the day’s tension. “The purpose of this meeting is to go over the projections you sent.”

Screen silence? Seriously? Why’s he so bent over a minor issue rather than the sloppy reports?

I clear my throat. “You’re a branch manager, and I expect you to handle whatever program you prefer. Should you think I wouldn’t approve, that should’ve been an earlier question before this meeting.” My face reflects at me. The glow from the computer screen casts me in a harsh light, highlighting the exhaustion etched into my features. As COO of one of the nation’s top financial firms, I must maintain a firm persona as part of the job. Now, I bounce my knee under the table, my role being tested.

A silence passes before Kahale’s face pops to the corner of my monitor, and a spreadsheet occupies the rest of the screen.

“I’m sure you already saw this. What do you think?” His voice cuts through the monitor. His grin wide, he’s oblivious to my simmering impatience. This virtual meeting with the Hawaiian branch has dragged on far too long.

“If this is the copy you emailed, these projections won’t work.” I lean forward, giving the spreadsheet a cursory glance before I refocus on the man’s tan face in the pop-up. “I need them revised and resubmitted by the end of the day Tuesday.”

Surely, he can hear my urgency. He has an entire weekend, plus Monday and Tuesday. More than enough time to get the job done. These aren’t mere numbers on a spreadsheet. They’re the compass by which we’ll navigate this fiscal year. Now, nearly halfway through January, the delay is more than a hiccup—it’s a threat to our strategic posture. I’m only letting him off the hook because he wasn’t the branch manager last January and he’s yet to learn my expectations.

“I’ll resubmit it by the end of Monday.”

A day sooner is even better.

“Thank you.” Given the circumstances, I try for the positive reinforcement I use for those who get their jobs done.

After the call, the silence in my office feels more profound. I drum my fingers on the desk, the noise set against the hum of the small fridge by the bookshelf and the faint sounds of the city below. The diminishing light casts the San Francisco skyline in subdued hues, signaling time’s passage in the world beyond this glass building.

The city’s building lights begin to sparkle like far-off stars, breathing life into the evening as the day’s commotion subsides. From my vantage point on the fifty-eighth floor, it appears as though life itself is drifting by.

I stifle a yawn. My fingers brushing against heavy eyelids, I battle a relentless fatigue that’s become my unwelcome shadow. My gaze drifts to the table nestled among the sofas, the spot where my assistant lately insists I sit for my lunch break.

My stomach sends a plaintive rumble at the sight of the covered container Jill brought earlier. But a single email spiraled into a phone call, and then the afternoon was a blur of back-to-back commitments. With my many office hours of sitting still, the twice-daily escape to the penthouse gym is a necessity to my routine.

My phone buzzes from beside the computer. It’s probably my mother again. Whatever she has to say can wait. I still need to recover from her unsettling call earlier today, which disrupted my composure and left me wary of any further calls from my cell phone for the day.

My jaw tightens. Just the memory of our conversation sends me off track once again. I reach for my pen from the blue sticky notepad next to my keyboard. Sitting up straighter, I tap the pen on my jaw. The metal is cool against my flesh as I ponder the story I had concocted—a lie that’s still gnawing at me.

At thirty-one, I’m my own man, answerable to no one. Yet, every conversation with my mother resurrects my inherent timidity. She was overenthusiastic about my brother’s impending wedding, or rather, more excited about reuniting me with Sonya at the upcoming ceremony. The moment she laid out plans for accommodations, ensuring my ex and I would be under the same roof, my tongue slipped.

Now, the task looms over me. I need a girlfriend before the end of March—no, earlier. I’ll need to familiarize her with my world and shield her from becoming my mother’s new project during the one-week visit.

For many, navigating dates comes naturally, but for me, it’s almost a Herculean task. Social engagements are not my forte, except with my friends, so I avoid such interactions like a bad investment. I tap the pen against my lips, my thoughts drifting to the last woman I interacted with. Clarissa. Undeniably beautiful, she displayed a clinginess right from the start. Our first lunch outing felt less like a date and more like an obligation. Nothing could compel me to call her back.

Until now.

A knock interrupts my thoughts. Before I can respond, the door swings open.

“Damien Blackwood.” I adjust my shirtsleeves as he enters.

“Jeremy Kress,” he responds with a curt nod, his darker skin tone, unlike mine, seems to hide the tiredness of his eyes. I gesture for him to take a seat across from my desk.

A palpable skepticism adds tension to his posture as he sits, likely stemming from our heated discussion yesterday about the promotion he expected but didn’t get. His eagerness to excel reminds me of my early days as a stockbroker. He’s one of the few team leaders who consistently meets his objectives without needing reminders.

“Do you have a moment?” His bright eyes scan me intently.

“I wouldn’t have offered you a seat otherwise, would I?”

Damien exhales. “I hear Smith’s retiring at the end of the year.”

Wow. How quickly the rumors spread about our financial-planning analyst.

I lean back, appraising him. His ambition is clear, but he’s more suited for other roles. “The position you’re talking about is a senior management role.”

“I can oversee financial planning and analysis functions just fine.”

My brow rises. No doubt, he knows what the job title entails and can handle it. I still have to state some reasons why this position might not be a good fit for him. “Don’t forget strategic planning and significant contributions to high-level decision-making processes.”

“I can handle it.” He squares his shoulders beneath a blue button-down.

I tap the pen on my chin, considering his potential. With intense training, he can handle it. However, I need his help to keep all the other branches from slacking—it’s an upcoming opening that might suit him better, unknown to the rest of the team. But I can’t tell him yet, in case Mary Walsh changes her mind and extends her retirement for another two years or so.

“Damien, it’s past office hours.” Usually, no one other than the cleaners and me are still in the building on a Friday night. I swivel in my chair, rolling it forward as I try to soften my tone. My assistant, Jill, suggested I was rather curt with him yesterday and reminded me of my New Year’s resolution to be more approachable this year. “We have a whole year ahead for you to demonstrate your capabilities for such a role.”

He nods, his expression clouded before he replaces it with a half smile. “Of course.”

“I don’t make the final hiring decisions, you know,” I remind him, although I have significant influence in the selection process, especially for key positions.

“I usually don’t stay this late at work.” He adjusts his loose tie, clearly uncomfortable about whatever he’s about to say. “I started driving home and then had to drive back. You’re invited to a small staff get-together at my place tomorrow.”

“You’re inviting me to your house?”

My eyes bulge, probably almost comically so. Invitations like this from subordinates are a rarity.

“I know you’re a busy man.” He nods, standing, seeming to conclude what my response will be. “I knew you wouldn’t come, but my sister insisted I ask. She wants to record or practice her recipes—”

“Time and place,” I say, decisively.

Damien’s eyes now mirror my earlier reaction, clearly taken aback. I can almost see him recalibrating his expectations. I might regret attending a party with the employees he’s invited, all of whom I seldom interact with. Yet, as their boss, I can’t appear disinterested in their lives, especially when we’re promoting a healthy work-life balance after an employee passed out last year from stress, which was more family-related than work.

The silence between us stretches, almost tangible, before I nod. “All right, Blackwood.”

He clears his throat, then adjusts his already tucked-in shirt into his khakis. “I’ll…” He lifts his hand, obviously struggling to regain his composure.

My chest swells, and I tap the pen in my hand. Damien hadn’t expected me to accept his invitation, and that, in itself, is an intriguing development.

He leaves with a promise to text me the address and time, scheduled late tomorrow. Saturdays I usually reserve for work with no interruptions from the staff. Sunday afternoons are my social days for weekly rounds of golf with my friends and fellow executives. Attending this gathering will be a step outside my routine.

***

Navigating the unfamiliar outskirts of the Bay Area on a Saturday evening, I find myself in the Mission District. Its quaint streets are a reprieve from the usual hustle of the places I frequent. My Tesla runs silently and smoothly against the pavement, contrasting with the odd fluttering in my stomach. The car”s navigation system cuts through the silence, announcing my arrival outside a vibrant two-story house. A warm embrace of fairy lights illuminates its bright-red door.

After parking on the street, I retrieve a brown bag with two boxes of chocolates—my contribution to the gathering. My leather shoes pad against the walkway to the steps, the bag in my hand crinkling and punctuating the quiet evening.

Beyond the front door, muffled activity, pots and pans clanging in preparation, greets me. I suck in a deep breath to steady my nerves, then straighten my collar before pressing the doorbell. Chimes. Hmm, homey, like Granny’s house.

I wait alongside potted calla lilies basking in the warm light as streetlights glow amid the neighborhood’s eclectic brick, Victorian, and Edwardian homes, each with a unique charm. However, this particular house stands out with its stone porch and stark-white shutters. If there’s a party, though, there’s not a single car in the driveway or on the street. I pull out my phone to check if I’m at the right house, then wince when my eyes glaze over the phone screen. I’m an hour early. Snap!

Each time I look at the phone to check one thing, something else always snags my attention. Right now, it’s my brother’s text. I can’t ignore it, and I feel my face split in half as I read the capitalized text.

Gavin: FIANCéE? I KNOW IT’S FAR FROM THE TRUTH. CALL ASAP.

I stagger when a door jerks violently and slams my forehead. An “ouch!” escapes as the phone slips from my grasp. A woman scoops it up and rushes over with a stream of apologies.

“I’m so sorry.” Her vibrant energy belies the situation. Handing back my device, she takes the bag of chocolates from my other hand. “This door is sticky.”

Slightly dazed, I rub my forehead. A door slam shouldn’t be this painful.

Her eyes, lively and warm, shine in the porch light. Her skin is a flawless shade of brown, with dark curls framing her oval face and dangling just above her shoulders. In an orange long-sleeve dress with a vivid print, she gives a sunny vibe. She’s shorter than the average woman, yet every inch of her is a presence that can’t be ignored.

“This cheap door.” She winces. “Damien has been meaning to fix it, but well… Come in. Let’s get some ice on that forehead.”

I’m an hour early, so I wave back toward my car and suggest waiting in it.

But she shakes her head, her curls bouncing. “Please stay. I’m Zuri.”

“Jeremy.” The tension in my shoulders drains. Is that a hint of ease I’m sensing in her presence?

“Oh, Jeremy, I’m so glad you came.” She arches well-sculpted brows, her mock astonishment charming. “Damien didn’t think you’d show.”

“I’m a man of my word.” I close the door behind us and follow her. Despite the striking contrast between them, this must be Damien’s sister. But again, I don’t know him well because we only talk about work. Clearly, he’s talked about me to her. I can only hope whatever he’s said was good.

As we cross hardwood floors through a room where pleasant sage walls host a lifetime of pictures, tantalizing scents beckon us to the kitchen. “Thanks for inviting me. I know your brother only did so because you were the initiator.”

“Damien talks about me?” She pulls out a barstool and pats it for me, her movements fluid, natural.

“Yesterday, I learned he has a sister.” Yep, that’s how little I know the employees. “Apparently, I’m here thanks to you.”

I slide onto the offered stool. Food trays line the marbled counters. Most are in foil pans with burners beneath them, likely keeping the food warm. “How many people are you expecting?”

“About twenty or so.”

Just a tenth of the staff, but it’s a fair amount. I’m lucky to be included in this party then. Damien mentioned something about his sister wanting to try out recipes. “You prepared all this food?”

She nods. “I’ll get you some ice first.” With a wave, she dismisses my protests, moves to the counter, and sets the bag of chocolates in the one open space. She then returns to the stainless fridge and pulls out a bag of frozen peas. “You’re the first one here, so you get to be my taste tester.”

My stomach responds with a timely rumble, eliciting her giggles. “Your fault for mentioning food tasting,” I quip and shift on the stool. More dishes await on the dining table connecting the kitchen. “So, you’re a chef, huh?”

“Something like that.” She applies the bag to my forehead, and I grimace at the coldness. Our hands brush as I reach to hold the bag. Her care is natural, so I have no reason to assume whatever Damien said about me was negative.

As Zuri glides to the counter, opening and closing the maple cabinets, I set the cold bag on the marble island, no longer willing to endure its biting chill against my skin. Rolling up my sleeves—part habit, part testament to my increasing ease in her company—I watch her stir a pot on the stove, steam rising in curls. Anticipation builds within me as she works. And as I further relax, I almost imagine she’s working more than culinary magic.