Page 21 of The Authenticity Clause
Julian held his gaze for one last, lingering second before turning and walking back to his car. Leo watched him go, his heart a frantic, thrumming drum against his ribs. He didn’t move until the silent, sleek car had disappeared down the street.
He finally stepped inside his apartment and closed the door, leaning his forehead against the cool wood. His entire body was buzzing with a potent, terrifying cocktail of emotions.The exhilaration of that near-moment, the raw, undeniable attraction, was so powerful it made him dizzy.
But hot on its heels came the guilt, cold and crushing.
That beautiful, fragile moment? The look in Julian’s eyes? The way he had said his name?
It was all for a man who didn’t exist.
Chapter 15: System Failure
Julian did not sleep.
Sleep was a biological necessity he typically managed with the same ruthless efficiency he applied to his inbox. Eight hours. No more, no less. But the previous night, his meticulously calibrated internal systems had staged a full-blown mutiny. Every time he closed his eyes, his brain, the traitor, replayed the scene at Leo’s apartment door on an infinite, high-definition loop.
The image of Leo’s art-filled, chaotic apartment. The scent of rain and old books. The charged, impossible silence between them. The way his own hand had lifted, seemingly of its own accord, possessed by a reckless desire to bridge the final few inches of space, to feel the warmth of Leo’s skin beneath his fingertips.
He’d spent hours analyzing the data.Conclusion: A momentary lapse in judgment brought on by atmospheric conditions and shared professional stress.It was a neat, logical explanation that felt as flimsy as a paper umbrella in a hurricane. His body wasn’t buying it. His pulse still quickened at the memory. A low, persistent hum of awareness had taken up residence in his chest, a constant, low-grade distraction that had followed him from his perfectly ordered apartment to his perfectly ordered car and now into his perfectly ordered office.
This will not stand,he told himself, setting his briefcase down with a sharp, definitive click. The office was still quiet, the Monday morning sun casting long, clean lines across the polished concrete floor. It was his fortress of solitude, his sanctuary of logic. Today, he would restore order. He would re-establish the professional boundaries that had been so catastrophically eroded. He would be the boss. Leo Hayes would be the employee. The brief, storm-induced anomaly was over.
It was a solid plan. It lasted exactly until 9:07 AM, the moment Leo Hayes walked through the main doors.
He was wearing a soft, sunshine-yellow sweater that was an affront to the office’s monochrome aesthetic, a pair of worn jeans, and a smile that could power a small city. He was laughing at something Maya had said, his head thrown back, and the sound of it, warm and uninhibited, traveled across the open-plan office and seemed to detonate directly in Julian’s sternum.
Julian’s meticulously constructed resolve crumbled into dust.
He immediately buried his head in a quarterly report, pretending to be deeply absorbed in a chart about market penetration.Donot look up. Youare a serious professional reviewing serious data. You are not a teenager with a crush. You are Julian Thorne.
“Morning, Julian!”
The cheerful greeting was a torpedo aimed directly at his carefully rebuilt defenses. He looked up, schooling his features into a mask of neutral professionalism. Leo was standing by his desk, holding a ridiculous, brightly colored mug that probably had a cat on it.
“Good morning, Mr. Hayes,” Julian replied, his tone overly formal, a clear attempt to put a professional-grade steel wall between them.
Leo’s smile didn’t falter. It widened. “Mr. Hayes? Wow, are we being formal today? Did I miss a memo about a royal visit?” He took a sip from his mug. It had a cartoon sloth on it, hanging from a branch under the words “Let’s Hang.” Julian felt a surge of irrational annoyance.
“I believe in maintaining a professional environment,” Julian said, his voice stiff.
“Right, right. Professionalism,” Leo said, his eyes sparkling with a mischief Julian was beginning to find both infuriating and magnetic. “Is that why your hair is doing that… interesting swoopy thing on the side today? It’s a very professional swoop.”
Julian’s hand flew to his hair reflexively. He’d styled it exactly as he did every other day. There was no swoop. He was being teased. By his employee. An employee he had every right to fire for gross insubordination, or at the very least, for owning a sloth mug.
But he didn’t. Instead, he heard himself say, “It is an intentional, asymmetrical design choice meant to optimize airflow.”
The words were out before his brain could stop them. Leo’s laugh, a bright, surprised bark of a sound, hit him again. And the most frustrating part? A reluctant smile was fighting its way onto Julian’s own face. He suppressed it with a Herculean effort.
This was not going according to plan. The banter was there. The glances—he could feel his eyes tracking Leo as he walked over to the Northwind team—were longer. His fortress had been breached, and the intruder was armed with a yellow sweater and terrible puns.
He spent the next hour trying, and spectacularly failing, to concentrate. The numbers on his screen swam before his eyes. His mind kept drifting, replaying their conversation, analyzing the subtle flirtation that now seemed to infuse every interaction they had. He found himself staring over at the creative team’s corner, where Leo was once again conducting his chaotic symphony, his energy drawing everyone in.
This is untenable,Julian thought, his fingers drumming a frantic, silent rhythm on his desk. He needed to reassert control. He needed a reason, a logical, professional reason, to interact with Leo that would put him firmly back in the position of authority.
He scanned his to-do list.Review Northwind wireframes. Finalize budget. Sign off on…There it was. A minor query about the font licensing for a new web element Anya had designed. It was something he could have resolved in a ten-second Slack message. It was perfect.
He stood, straightened his tie, and began the long walk across the office. It felt less like a professional errand and more like the slow, deliberate march of a man heading toward his own doom. Each step was a conscious decision, a small betrayal of his own resolve.
Youdon’t need to do this inperson, Thorne. This is inefficient.
