The CEO’s stand-in girlfriend

A look into her thoughts

*Lucas*

I stand in the kitchen, the aroma of chicken broth bubbling on the stove. It’s strange how I find myself enjoying this moment, stirring the pot like some kind of domestic hero. The thought annoys me. I’m not a caretaker; I’m the guy who gets things done, who bulldozes through life with no time for sentiment. Yet here I am, thinking about how much I want Ashley to feel better and wondering if I can get the soup right.

The soup simmers, and I’m careful not to let my thoughts wander too far. I remind myself this is just about duty… she’s sick, and I’m the one who can help. I’m not looking for any kind of emotional connection. I shake my head, trying to clear my mind, but the flutter in my stomach doesn’t go away.

Once the broth is ready, I ladle it into a bowl, adding some crackers on the side for good measure. I head back to her room, where she’s still wrapped in that blanket like a burrito, looking so fragile and vulnerable. It sends a pang through me that I can’t quite understand.

“Hey, Ash,” I say softly as I walk in. She stirs, her eyes blinking open, and there’s a hint of a smile on her lips, even through her fever. That smile sends another jolt through me, and I mentally scold myself for being so affected.

“Soup time,” I announce, setting the bowl on her bedside table. “And you need to drink this.” I hold out a glass of water with her pills, watching as she takes them, her fingers brushing against mine. The contact is electric, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of her presence, the way her hair falls around her face, the way her eyes hold a mixture of gratitude and something else I can’t quite place.

“Thanks, Lucas,” she murmurs, her voice still thick with illness. It’s a simple phrase, but it feels heavy with meaning.

“Just get better,” I reply, a bit too curt, but I want to keep things light. I don’t want her to think I’m softening or that I care more than I’m willing to admit.

After ensuring she has everything she needs, I step out of the room and head to the living room. I need a distraction, something to keep my mind off how much I enjoyed making that soup for her. I switch on the TV, but I can’t focus on the movie. My mind keeps drifting back to her, to the way her face looks when she smiles, and how she seemed to appreciate my care.

That’s when I notice it: her notebook lying on the coffee table. It’s inconspicuous, but there’s something about it that draws me in. I pick it up, flipping it open. The pages are filled with her neat handwriting… thoughts, dreams, and a list of qualities she wants in a man.

My heart skips a beat as I scan the words. ‘Compassionate,’ ‘funny,’ ‘adventurous.’ I read them again, the weight of each word settling heavily in my chest. This is personal. Has she left this out for me to find? Do these qualities imply she’s wanting me to change into this kinda man?

A flutter of something… hope? takes flight in my stomach. It feels ridiculous, but I can’t help but wonder if she imagines me fitting into those categories… I do not though… Not really, and I know it. I picture her sitting on this very couch, writing these thoughts down, possibly thinking of me, and it sends a rush of warmth through my veins.

Without thinking I get up and go to her room to asks her. She is sleeping soundly. I wonder if I should wake her?

But I can’t let myself get carried away. She’s vulnerable right now, and I need to remember that this is just about helping her get better. I should put the notebook back and forget about it. But I can’t, so when I return to the couch I keep reading, skimming through her dreams, her desires, and I find myself feeling a mix of admiration and something else I’m not ready to confront.

I close the notebook, my heart racing. Once again I want to march into her room and ask her about it, but I know she’s sleeping, and I don’t want to disturb her. I can’t risk her thinking this is anything more than a temporary truce between us.

So instead, I take the notebook and place it carefully back on the coffee table. I head to my room, feeling a storm of emotions brewing within me. I lie down on my bed, stifling the urge to think about Ashley and the impact she’s having on me.

I stare at the ceiling, the weight of my thoughts heavy and oppressive. I know I should keep my distance, but the lines are blurring. I’m drawn to protect her in ways I never expected.

As I drift off to sleep, I can’t shake the feeling that tomorrow might be different. I’ll find a way to talk to her about what I found. Maybe I’ll finally confront the growing tension between us… I need to tell her I am not that man.

For now, though, I allow the darkness to envelop me, hoping that when morning comes she will have taken a turn for the better.