Page 3

I groan, rubbing a hand down my face. “I was running late and jumped into an elevator without looking. There were two guys in there. One looked like a professional assassin, and the other…”
I hesitate. Because saying, “was the most absurdly gorgeous, intimidating man I’ve ever seen in real life” doesn’t feel professional.
Ryan smirks, catching the pause. “And the other?”
I scowl. “Was probably an executive. And he just stared at me. The whole time. Like I was a lost intern who somehow wandered into a presidential briefing.”
Ryan laughs. “You’re sure he wasn’t just checking you out?”
I scoff. “Ryan. This man was wearing a three-piece suit that was probably hand-sewn by the ghost of Versace himself. He had that whole silent, dangerously rich, exudes power for no reason thing going on.”
Ryan tilts his head. “So…exactly your type?”
I smack his arm. “I hate you.”
He laughs again as the elevator dings and opens onto our floor—the land of stale coffee, fluorescent lighting, and exactly zero silver foxes who would put Adonis to shame.
I sigh, stepping out. “Anyway, no clue who he was, but he called me printsessa before leaving.”
Ryan follows behind me, amused. “Did you just get nicknamed by an executive? That sounds like workplace favoritism. You should definitely use that to get a raise.”
“Oh, sure,” I deadpan. “Next time I see him, I’ll just be like, ‘Hey, remember when I embarrassed myself in front of you? Can I get a salary bump for that?’”
Ryan snickers. “Stranger things have happened.”
“Not to me,” I mutter.
We’re barely out of the elevator when we run into Brittany. She’s effortlessly put together, dressed in the kind of outfit that screams money. I’m not even sure what she’s doing here. Her honey-blonde hair is curled to perfection, her makeup is flawless, and she moves like she owns the office, which—let’s be honest—she kind of does, in a social hierarchy kind of way.
The moment she spots Ryan, her whole face lights up and she practically launches herself at him. “Ryan!” she squeals, throwing her arms around his neck in a dramatic hug.
I take a small step back, suddenly feeling like an unpaid extra in a rom-com I didn’t sign up for.
Ryan chuckles, hugging her back. “Hey, Britt.”
She pulls away just enough to bat her lashes at him. “You’re still coming tonight, right? You better be coming.”
Ryan rubs the back of his neck, his eyes flicking to me briefly before nodding. “Yeah, of course. Wouldn’t miss it.”
Brittany grins, reaching up to adjust his collar like they’re starring in a Hallmark Christmas special. “Good. It wouldn’t be a party without you.”
I stay quiet, shifting my coffee cup from one hand to the other, waiting for the moment to naturally end so I don’t have to be the awkward third wheel who interrupts a moment.
The thing is, I actually like Brittany.
She’s always been nice to me—smiley, complimentary, effortlessly social. But there’s something about the way she never quite makes eye contact when she compliments me, or the way her tone feels just a little too sweet when she says, “Oh my God, that blazer is so cute!” that keeps me on edge.
Like she’s keeping score, and I have no idea what game we’re playing.
Ryan, blissfully unaware of the passive-aggressive social warfare happening right now, turns to me. “Hey, you should come too.”
I blink. “To what?”
“The party,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Britt’s throwing it at her place. Big thing. Food, drinks, decent music if she doesn’t let her cousin DJ again.” He shoots her a smirk, and she playfully shoves his arm in response.
I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to go—I could actually use a night of fun—but because Brittany is looking at me now, and I can’t read her expression.
“Oh, yeah,” she says, tone light. “You should totally come. Though I must warn you that Ryan is making it out to be a bigger deal than it actually is. It’s just dinner at my place with a few people from the office.”