Sincerely, His Secretary

Chapter 4: Something Shifts

Friday mornings were sacred to Vanessa.

They meant looser dress code, fresh bagels in the break room, and the faint promise of not having a mental breakdown until after noon.

She walked into the office with her iced coffee like a shield and her playlist blasting “Don’t Mess With Me” level girlboss energy.

And then she saw it.

On her desk.

A single sticky note.

“Bagels are gone. Sharon took the last cinnamon. You snooze, you carb-lost. — T.B.”

She blinked. Read it again. Then snorted.

That sarcastic bastard.

— You left me a note? — she asked as she stepped into his office with her coffee raised like a weapon.

Thomas didn’t even look up from his screen.

— Consider it an early warning system. I figured you’d grieve.

— Cinnamon was the only reason I showed up today.

— Shame. You almost looked motivated.

She narrowed her eyes.

— I’ll have you know I’m extremely productive when I’m underpaid, underfed, and disrespected.

His lip quirked.

A real smile.

Not mocking. Not tight-lipped.

A flash of teeth. The kind of smile that transformed him from “CEO death glare” to “lead actor in a forbidden workplace romance."

Vanessa stared.

Shit. That’s not fair.

— You just smiled, — she blurted.

— Don’t tell HR. They’ll think I’m losing my edge.

She smiled back, involuntarily.

For a second, it wasn’t boss and secretary.

It wasn’t tension and clipped sarcasм.

It was just… two people.

Sharing a moment.

Then he looked away, clearing his throat.

— I have a meeting in twenty. Can you bring the Andrews file?

— Already in your folder. Also color-coded. And alphabetized. Because I’m apparently someone who needs approval to survive.

He glanced at her with a raised brow.

— Are you always this dramatic?

— I’m a theatre kid with an Excel addiction. Yes.

That got another smile.

Smaller. But still.

Progress.

At noon, Sharon stopped by Vanessa’s desk with a look of faux scandal.

— You made him laugh.

— No I didn’t.

— You did. I heard it. The deep chuckle thing. He usually saves that for boardroom wins and overpriced bourbon.

— He smiled. That’s it. Barely.

— Girl. If that man smiled at me like that, I’d call my mother.

Vanessa rolled her eyes but felt her cheeks flush.

Sharon leaned in.

— Just be careful. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the “I hate that I’m attracted to you but I also might fire you if you breathe wrong” look.

— That’s oddly specific.

— This office eats feelings for lunch. You’re either stone or stupid. No in-between.

Vanessa thought of Amanda. Of wine, and sharp smiles, and quiet threats.

— Yeah. I noticed.

That evening, Thomas passed her desk on his way out. He paused.

— You’re still here?

— You’re surprised every time. It’s starting to hurt.

— I thought you’d left to mourn the bagel again.

— I’m in recovery.

He hesitated.

Then, quietly:

— Have a good weekend, Vanessa.

She looked up.

Surprised.

— You too, Thomas.

They held each other's gaze.

No sarcasm.

No masks.

And something shifted.

Just a little.

But enough.

Saturday afternoon was not a time Vanessa expected to see anyone from work — let alone Thomas Brown.

She was in a bookstore.

In sweats. Hair in a bun that had given up on life. No makeup. An oversized hoodie that said No Thoughts, Just Vibes.

She had just reached for the last copy of a hardcover thriller when another hand landed on the same spine.

She looked up.

And froze.

Thomas.

In jeans.

And a black T-shirt.

Looking like a Calvin Klein ad who accidentally wandered into literature.

He blinked.

Then:

— Carter?

She immediately wanted to melt through the floor.

— I swear if you say anything about my outfit, I will report you to HR on Monday.

He looked amused.

— I wasn’t going to. But now I’m curious what the charge would be.

— Public distress via hot guy in casualwear.

His smile was slower today. Softer. Less sharp edges.

— So… you read thrillers?

— Only when my personal life is too boring to feed my anxiety.

He raised a brow.

— I’d argue your work life is exciting enough.

— You yelling about quarterly metrics isn’t the same as a murder plot.

He chuckled.

Chuckled.

And that chuckle did things to her that should’ve required a license.

— I was going to buy this for the flight to D.C., — he said, nodding at the book.

— Well, now I can’t take it. That’d be weird.

— Or I could let you have it. And borrow it when you’re done.

She stared at him.

— Are you offering me… a book custody arrangement?

— Why not? It’s less messy than most of my relationships.

He said it lightly.

But something behind the words lingered.

She softened.

— I’ll read it fast. I’m quick.

— I figured.

He handed her the book.

Their fingers brushed.

Heat.

She cleared her throat.

— Thank you.

He looked at her like he wasn’t sure what to do with this version of her — hoodie, sarcasm, realness.

And she looked at him like she couldn’t believe this version existed — casual, smiling, maybe even... kind.

— Well, I’ll let you get back to your low-stakes crime spree, — he said finally.

— And I’ll let you return to pretending you're not secretly a cinnamon bagel thief.

He smirked.

— Enjoy your weekend, Vanessa.

— You too, Thomas.

She watched him walk away.

And realized her heart was racing.

And not from the book.

Later that night, curled up on her couch, she stared at the book in her lap and whispered to herself:

— This is a problem.

A very, very attractive problem.