Page 5 of Bossh*le Daddy
I struggled to my feet, papers clutched against my chest, trying to smooth my skirt with one hand while managing the mess I'd made. My ribbon had come completely undone, hanging loose against my shoulder. I must have looked like I'd been through a tornado, yet a strange thrill coursed through me.
His eyes roamed over me slowly, drinking in every detail of my dishevelment. But there was something different in his expression now. Not the cold dismissal from before. Something more considering. More interested. My heart raced, betraying me with an unexpected flutter of attraction.
"You apologize too much," he said finally.
I opened my mouth—to apologize for apologizing, probably—then closed it again. My cheeks burned hotter, if that was possible, and I felt an unwelcome excitement at his attention.
"Get yourself together," he said, but the cutting edge had left his voice. "Then bring me the Morrison contract. Third drawer of your desk, blue folder. Don't drop it."
He left then, gliding past me with that fluid grace that left my pulse quickened, leaving behind only the intoxicating scent of expensive cologne and the feeling that I'd just been tested in ways I didn't understand. The door closed with a soft click, and I was alone with my wrinkled papers and wounded pride, and a strange yearning I couldn't quite quell.
Had he felt it, too?
*
By six o'clock, the sixtieth floor had emptied like a sink with the drain pulled. The exodus started at five-thirty—first the admins, then middle management, until only the ambient hum of computers and climate control remained. I sat at my desk, shoulders aching, neck stiff from hunching over my disaster of a planner, trying to decode my own handwriting.
The day's notes looked like evidence of a mental breakdown. Words crossed out and rewritten, margins filled with frantic additions, Post-Its stuck on top of Post-Its in a rainbow of panic. Seven different client calls transcribed in shorthand that had devolved into hieroglyphics by noon. Meeting notes that started neat and ended in what could generously be called abstract art.
But I was still here. Still breathing. Still employed, as far as I knew.
My computer screen swam in and out of focus. The Morrison contract—successfully delivered without dropping—had led to the Takahashi files, then the quarterly reports, then an endless stream of emails that needed responses drafted in Damian Stone's voice. Cold. Precise. Utterly without mercy. I'd written and rewritten each one, trying to capture that particular blend of professional and terrifying that came so naturally to him.
My blazer hung on the back of my chair, victim to the nervous sweating that had plagued me all day. The nice professionalimage I'd tried so hard to project this morning was thoroughly dead.
I rubbed my eyes, then immediately regretted it when I remembered the mascara. Great. Now I probably looked like a raccoon on top of everything else. Professional. Competent. Definitely someone who belonged on the executive floor of a Fortune 500 company.
The exhaustion was bone-deep, the kind that came not just from physical effort but from being constantly on edge. Every time Damian's door had opened, my entire body had gone rigid. Every email notification made my heart race. I'd spent eight and a half hours in a state of barely controlled panic, and it showed.
My hand drifted to my purse, tucked under the desk where no one could see. I glanced around the empty floor—nothing but shadows and the glow of city lights through the windows. Even the cleaning crew wouldn't arrive for another hour. For the first time all day, I was truly alone.
I reached into my bag, fingers finding the familiar softness immediately. Just touching the worn fur made my shoulders drop, tension easing fractionally. I pulled her out just far enough to see those button eyes, one slightly loose from years of love.
"Made it through day one," I whispered, thumb running over one floppy ear. The gesture was automatic, soothing, a remnant from when the world had been smaller and safer and someone else's job to navigate. "Barely. But it counts, right?"
The bunny, wise in her silence, offered no judgment. Just comfort. Just the reminder that somewhere under all this—the desperate job-seeking, the mounting bills, the constant fear of not being enough—there was still the girl who'd named her stuffed animals and gave them voices and whole personalities.
I held her for just a moment longer, letting that softness ground me. Tomorrow would be another day of Damian Stone'simpossible standards. Another day of pretending I knew what I was doing. Another day of—
"If you plan on surviving here."
I jumped so hard the bunny flew from my hands, landing on my desk in full view. Damian stood in his doorway, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. How long had he been watching? How much had he seen?
My face burned as I scrambled to shove the bunny back in my bag, my hands clumsy with mortification. "Mr. Stone, I didn't—I was just—"
"You'd better toughen up." He moved closer, and I realized this was the most informal I'd seen him. Still intimidating, still controlled, but something about the rolled sleeves and loosened tie made him seem almost human.
The words stung, shame flooding through me. He'd seen. Of course he'd seen. Probably thought I was pathetic, playing with toys at my desk like a child. My eyes dropped to my keyboard, unable to meet that gray gaze.
"Yes, Mr. Stone," I mumbled, the words automatic. "I'm sorry."
"There you go again. Apologizing." But his voice had lost its earlier edge. He stopped at the side of my desk, and I could feel him studying my chaos—the disaster of notes, the forest of Post-Its, the evidence of my day-long struggle to keep up.
"I wasn't . . ." I started, then stopped. I was apologizing. I was always apologizing.
"Look at me."
It wasn't a request. I raised my eyes slowly, expecting to find dismissal, disgust, confirmation that I was exactly as pathetic as I felt. But his expression was . . . different. Assessing, yes. But something else too. Something that made my breath catch.
