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NATALIE

I’m busily rearranging the files on my desktop when my new grouchy boss strides past my desk and mutters, “Bring the agenda.” I grab the printout and tablet and hustle behind him. His sleek, cold office reminds me of an expensive plastic surgeon’s office.

He gestures for me to sit but takes the seat closest to the door instead of his giant desk. I wonder if it’s a power play, a test, or if he just likes being able to escape quickly.

“Go,” he says, not looking up from his phone.

I read aloud the list of items I've discovered that require further investigation.

"There's a double entry for the software license fee," I announce, flipping through my own printout to the section marked with a bright yellow flag.

The paper rustles as I turn it, highlighting the irregularities.

"I cross-checked the invoice," I continue, "and noticed there's a fifty percent markup over the current market rate.

I've already arranged a call with their account manager and have shared the detailed talking points with you. "

He stares intently at the paper, his brows furrowed, then shifts his gaze to me, a hint of disbelief in his eyes. "How on earth did you even catch that?"

I offer a nonchalant shrug, a small smile playing on my lips. "I simply read the invoice."

The expression on his face is a fascinating blend of shock and admiration, his eyebrows lifting slightly as he processes my words.

Suddenly, his phone buzzes loudly, vibrating insistently against the wooden surface of his desk.

He snatches it up with a swift motion, his voice booming as he barks into the line.

With a sharp gesture, he holds up a finger to silence me, signaling that this conversation demands his full attention.

As he paces back and forth, his eyes flicker back to me, and I feel something shocking and very unwelcome cut through me. Hunger for my grouchy boss.

The call ends and he sits again, silent, then gestures at the memo packet I prepped. “What’s in there?”

“Background info for the congressional call. Clips of news coverage. The mayor’s likely to bring up the contractor controversy, so I included the relevant statement from last year. And a quick readout on the city’s response to that ransomware attack.”

He flips through the sheets, faster and faster, then tosses them onto the table.

“Plus, I’ve highlighted the three clauses that need legal review. You could sign off now, but if you want less blowback, I’d wait until after the Congressional call.” I keep my voice level, even though I know he’s trying to catch me in some mistake.

He sits back, crosses his arms, and finally smiles. It’s a dangerous smile, the kind you only see on apex predators ready to pounce.

“You’re a lot better than the last PA,” he says.

I ignore the compliment. “I’d like to survive the first week,” I say instead.

He barks a laugh and shakes his head. “Good luck.” He says it like he means it.

* * *

By nine-thirty, I’ve wrangled four more phone calls, fielded a flower delivery intended for the last PA, and written a summary of his meetings that morning. I barely have time to hit the restroom or reapply lipstick before the city council liaison arrives, forty minutes early and radiating terror.

“I’m Natalie Hollister, Mr. McDaid’s personal assistant,” I say, my tone firm yet polite. “He’s currently engaged on a call, but you’re welcome to wait in the conference room. We have fresh coffee and a selection of pastries available.”

The councilman, a haggard figure whose pallor suggests he’s battling his third ulcer this year, opens his mouth to protest. However, I fix him with a pointed gaze that leaves no room for argument.

It’s enough to send him retreating, his shoulders slumping slightly as he murmurs, “Thank you, Ms. Hollister,” before scurrying into the chilly conference room.

I’m entering data in the shared drive when I feel a presence behind me. I glance over to find Declan leaning over my shoulder to point at something on the monitor. His arm brushes my own, and for a split second, I’m hyper-aware of the way his chest practically blankets my back.

“Why is there a delay on the perimeter upgrade contract?” he asks, his warm breath brushing against my ear. I don’t let myself shiver but it’s a close call.

“Because the supplier’s customs paperwork isn’t done. I emailed their rep yesterday and copied Trey on the correspondence.”

He studies the screen too closely for comfort. “Trey’s lazy as fuck. CC me next time.”

I glance up, and our eyes meet. His irises are so dark they’re almost black, and they are close enough for me to see the gold flecks at the edge. He doesn’t move away. He isn’t hitting on me; he’s testing for weakness, and when he doesn’t find it, he lingers just long enough to make a point.

He straightens, the heat of his body gone, and says, “You’re good at this.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say, not quite able to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. He smirks, like he heard it and approves.

He walks off. I sit there for a moment, letting my pulse slow down.

When the next meeting begins, Declan is all business.

His demeanor is sharp and focused while exuding an air of impatience that occasionally veers into abrasiveness.

Each time I pass him a document, I feel the fleeting brush of his fingers against mine, a jolt of electricity sparking through the air between us.

Once could easily be dismissed as an accident, but twice begins to form an intriguing pattern.

By the fourth time our hands collide, the heat of his touch lingers in my mind, and I find myself caught in a whirlwind of thoughts about what those strong fingers would feel like against my skin. The realization sends a flush of embarrassment through me, and I want to slap myself back to reality.

We’re reviewing a security proposal when he snatches a sheet from my stack, only to toss it back a second later. “You missed a line in the city’s bid,” he snaps, tapping the page.

I don’t even blink. “No, I crossed it out. That line’s from the old request for proposal. They updated it last night.” I grab the tablet, pull up the email, and hand it to him.

He reads, his eyes scanning the lines intently, then frowns deeply, creasing his brow before finally looking up at me. For the first time, he appears off-balance, as if the ground beneath him has shifted. "You're right," he admits, his voice carrying a note of grudging acceptance.

"I know," I respond, and even though I intend the words to be firm, they emerge softer, almost gentle.

Silence envelops us, not an uncomfortable hush, but one heavy with unspoken thoughts and emotions. His jaw clenches and unclenches as though he's wrestling with the urge to speak, yet unsure of the words. Ultimately, he opts for a simple nod, acknowledging the moment.

After the meeting, he follows me to the breakroom and stands there watching as I pour coffee. “Do you ever get flustered?” he asks, like it’s a genuine question.

“Not unless someone’s bleeding,” I say, dropping a sugar cube into my mug.

His lips twitch. “Good. We need that around here.”

* * *

When noon rolls around, I’m barely holding it together.

He’s everywhere—on calls, in meetings, hovering near my desk, always with some new crisis to triage or paperwork to review.

Each time we’re in the same room, my awareness of him sharpens.

The way he sits with his legs sprawled and his hands steepled is seriously hot.

The slight rasp to his laugh when someone actually surprises him sends a shiver up my spine.

The scar on his right knuckle that catches the light when he taps the table for emphasis makes me curious as to where he got it.

I should be annoyed. I mean, he’s rude, impatient, and impossible to please.

But I’m not. Or, I am, but only in the way that makes me want to lean in and argue more.

The more he pushes, the more I want to push back.

And that’s starting to bleed into other thoughts: what it would feel like to be pinned against that glass wall, what he’d sound like in bed, and whether he’s as bossy naked as he is in a boardroom.

I shake myself. This is not the plan. The plan was to impress him, get a solid reference, and move up the ladder somewhere less unhinged.

I pull up the next call on his calendar, dial it, and buzz his office. “Your two o’clock is ready,” I say.

He picks up, voice low and gruff. “Send them in.”

I stand, straighten my skirt, and ignore the tremor in my knees.

One more meeting, I promise myself. Then I’ll get a grip.

But when he walks past, so close I can smell that clean, spicy cologne, my hands shake just a little on the folder.

Goddammit, I think. This was not supposed to happen.

* * *

By the time I’m done wrangling Declan’s inbox and cleaning up after a city council disaster, I’m running so hot that my lips buzz every time I close my mouth too hard.

I keep looking up from my keyboard, expecting to find him lurking behind my glass partition, but he’s gone into one of his closed-door rages with the IT contractor.

If I ever want to survive this job, I need to figure out how to reset my system before I do something reckless, like unbutton my blouse just to see if I can break his goddamn poker face.

At exactly thirteen-o-eight, I snag my purse and duck into the ladies’ room.

The McDaid Security ladies’ room is probably the nicest I’ve ever seen, with marble counters, gold fixtures, and spa-tier lighting.

I choose the stall at the end, lock it, and let my spine melt against the cool tile.

My hands shake just a little as I dig through my bag for anything to fixate on that isn’t the heat in my stomach or the memory of Declan’s hands on mine.