Page 21 of Babies for the Big Shot

If he keeps acting as if I’m more than just some random hire…

I don’t know how long I can keep pretending I don’t feel it, too.

Worse?

In the afternoon, he calls me into his office to “review a campaign.”

Totally normal. Totally routine.

Except it’s not.

The second I step inside, the air thickens. The door clicks shut behind me, sealing us in. It’s just me and him now, and the sexual tension pressing in from every corner, sharp and electric.

The lights are low. Not sexy low, just corporate soft. But somehow it’s still as if we’re back in that elevator, seconds away from a terrible decision that felt too good to be wrong.

He’s standing near the window when I enter, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a folder with mockup printouts. His sleeves are rolled up again, of course they are, and I have to force my eyes upward before I start mentally designing a commemorative plaque for his forearms.

“Close the door?” he asks, voice smooth but unreadable.

I do. Because I have no spine. And also because my brain has momentarily been replaced with a glittering slideshow of bad choices.

He moves to the desk, spreads out the campaign pages between us, pretending this is about work. Pretending we’re fine. But his gaze lingers, steady, unblinking, taking me in with a focus that says he’s already mapped every inch of me and isn’t done yet.

My throat goes dry. My heart tap dances in my chest. I grip the edge of the desk as if it’ll keep me upright.

“I wanted to go over the targeting adjustments,” he says evenly, eyes still locked on mine instead of the spreadsheets.

“Oh, you mean the ones I literally just emailed you twenty minutes ago?” I reply, sarcastic and a little breathless.

He cocks a brow. “Yes. Those.”

I try to focus. I really do. But my brain’s buffering.

He takes a step closer.

I take a tiny, instinctive step back, bumping into the corner of his desk.

He notices.

The tiniest hint of a smirk curves at the edge of his mouth. “Something wrong?”

“Nope,” I say, too quickly. “I just… uh. Had lunch too fast.”

He says nothing.

Just studies me.

Carefully. Intently. Eyes tracking every breath I take, every shift in my expression, measuring how close I am to coming apart in his hands.

“Sir,” I add, sarcastic, half under my breath.

It’s meant to be a jab.

But his eyes darken.

His gaze narrows, sharp with memory—every word I threw at him in that elevator, every gasp, every taunt, the way I wrapped around him, breath hot against his skin, a secret he still hasn’t let go of.

I swear the air tilts. The room narrows. My breath catches and his jaw tenses and for one long, perilous second, he leans in.