Page 20 of For the Plot
Hot in thewould absolutely ruin your lifekind of way.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and push the door open. The first thing I see is his back. He's standing near the window, suit jacket draped over the back of a leather chair, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed. He's talking on the phone, voice low and firm. I catch fragments—something about investor expectations and Q3 metrics—but the words barely register.
Because the man is unreal.
Reece Blackwood in daylight is not the same Reece Blackwood I saw in a dimly lit bar. This version is sharper, more composed, carved in confidence and quiet authority. His hair is a little tousled, like he ran his hand through it out of habit, and his shirt hugs his frame in a way that makes me profoundly aware I've been single for weeks and emotionally unmoored for longer.
He turns when he hears the door shut behind me, still on the call, eyes landing on mine with a flicker of something unreadable. That look is brief, barely half a second, but it does something to my chest. Like someone's pressed pause on the air in the room and is making me wait to breathe.
"Understood," he says into the phone, tone clipped. "Let's circle back on Thursday."
He ends the call and sets the phone on his desk before giving me his full attention. "Good morning." His voice is deeper than I remember. Rougher somehow. It slides across my skin like velvet dragged against glass.
"Morning," I manage, pulling my professional mask into place like a shield. "Impressive views."
His mouth lifts, barely. "They're better when I'm not on back-to-back calls."
"I imagine everything is."
“Did you get all of the documents and details that Leann sent over?” he asks, a look of concern on his face.
“I did.”
“Good. She wasn’t expecting to go into early labor and miss training you, but I’m sure that between you and me, we can work up some semblance of a quick transition into your new role.”
There's a moment of silence—just a beat too long. And then, like we're both remembering we're adults with jobs and not characters in a slow-burn romance novel, he gestures toward the desk that sits in the alcove, just outside of his office.
"Your setup. Leann's system is intuitive, but we can walk through anything you'd like adjusted.”
I nod, moving toward the desk, grateful for something to focus on that isn't the devastating cut of his jaw or the way his tie is loosened just enough to see the dark hair that peppers his chest.
The desk is minimal: a dual-monitor setup, a closed laptop, a sleek phone system, and a single black notebook with my name embossed on the front.
My stomach does a slow flip.
"You did this?"
"Leann handled the logistics. I told her I wanted you ready on day one. Here.” He pulls the chair away from the desk and gestures toward it. “Allow me.”
Something about the way his eyes follow me makes my pulse trip.
I settle into the chair and open the laptop, scanning the startup screen. Everything's loaded and ready, just waiting for me to sink into the rhythm.
Reece lingers beside my desk, not in a hovering way—I imagine he’s far too self-possessed for that—but close enough that I can feel the heat of his presence even when he’s not speaking.
He walks me through a few essentials, pointing out the folder system Leann used, which calendar alerts are flexible versus carved in stone, and the three executives I should never, ever reschedule without bloodshed or a board vote.
“There are a few other assistants on this floor,” he adds, his gaze flicking briefly down the hallway. “You’ll meet them eventually. Gina’s sharp. I spoke with her when you arrived—she’s a good resource if you have questions.” He doesn’t lean on my desk, doesn’t fidget, doesn’t do anything unnecessary. Every word, every movement is purposeful. Controlled. And yet the space between us hums like static.
And while I tell myself I’m imagining it… the tension? It's alive.
It hums beneath the surface like a wire pulled too tight. Neither of us acknowledges it, but I can feel it in the way his voice lowers when he speaks to me. In the way his gaze lingers half a second longer than it should when I ask a question.
He doesn't flirt. Not overtly. But he watches. And I notice.
God, do I notice.
"So," I say, breaking the quiet. "What's the first fire of the day?"
