Hurricanes, Hickies, and HR Nightmare
1269 Words
~Ava’s POV~
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There should be a support group for assistants fake-dating their ruthless billionaire bosses.
Step One: Admit you're lying to everyone you know.
Step Two: Pretend you’re not attracted to said boss.
Step Three: Pray you don’t develop a fetish for emotional damage and buttoned cuffs.
By Monday morning, my brain was held together with caffeine, lies, and one of Adam’s hoodies that I’d “accidentally” taken from the dryer. It smelled like cedar, irritation, and ruin. Kind of like the man himself.
I was halfway through sorting his quarterly reports when Human Resources knocked on his office door like they were here to fire someone. That someone being me.
A middle-aged woman with lemon-sucked lips and a clipboard stepped in without waiting.
“Mr. Hart. Miss Monroe.”
“Janice,” Adam said blandly. “Come in. Wreak havoc.”
“I don’t wreak,” she said sharply, glancing between us. “I enforce.”
I gave her my most innocent smile. The one I used when I needed to manipulate baristas into free croissants.
“Is there a problem?” I asked, already knowing there was a problem.
Janice didn’t sit. Just stood there like a bad omen in orthopedic shoes.
“There have been… discussions.” She cleared her throat. “About boundaries. About ethics. About workplace relationships that might impact company dynamics.”
“Sounds vague,” Adam replied. “My favorite kind of complaint.”
“Is your relationship with your assistant personal or professional?”
He smiled, the one that usually precedes emotional destruction.
“Yes.”
Janice blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Professional. Public. And yes, personal.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again.
“Adam—”
“She moved into my penthouse last week,” he continued casually. “The staff signed NDAs. Our lawyers are informed. Anything else, Janice?”
Janice looked like she’d swallowed a stapler.
“I’ll… need to document this.”
“Of course,” Adam said smoothly. “Do your worst. Or best. Honestly, it’s all mediocre at this point.”
She huffed and left. I turned to him, eyes wide.
“You just declared we’re sleeping together to HR.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it very hard.”
“I said we live together. You’re the one thinking in italics.”
I groaned and dragged my hands down my face. “Why are you like this?”
“Born this way.”
“Unfixable?”
“Terminal.”
I spun toward the door.
“I’m getting coffee before I strangle someone.”
“Be back by eleven.”
“For your next HR violation?”
“For our couple’s therapy session.”
I flipped him off on the way out. He winked.
---
The office buzzed like a beehive on Adderall. Word traveled fast in corporate towers, and apparently, “Adam Hart’s assistant is also his live-in girlfriend” was better than free donuts in the break room.
I got cornered twice before lunch. Once by Marketing (“Are you two actually together or is this an Adam’s version of foreplay thing?”), and once by the intern who kept a spreadsheet of Adam’s alleged s****l history.
Kara texted me at noon.
> KARA: You’re trending on the internal Slack channels.
AVA: God, kill me.
KARA: People are betting on how long before he proposes.
AVA: Tell them I died.
KARA: Already did. They think it’s a PR stunt.
KARA: Also someone spotted you both leaving the restaurant Friday night and thought he kissed you against the elevator doors.
AVA: WHAT??
KARA: They think it was hot. I think it was probably you trying to push him in.
She wasn’t wrong.
---
That night, I came home to the smell of takeout and jazz. Not the romantic kind. The kind that makes you question if you’re in a film noir where someone ends up poisoned by the second act.
Adam was already in the living room, legs stretched, whiskey in hand. His sleeves were rolled up, hair slightly messy, like he’d just finished yelling at the stock market for fun.
“Dinner,” he said without looking at me.
“I’m not eating anything from you unless I have a food taster.”
“Fine. Starve. More for me.”
“What is it?”
“Thai.”
“From where?”
He gave me a slow look. “A restaurant.”
“You have the culinary mystery of a Bond villain.”
I dropped my bag and sat on the opposite side of the couch. As far from him as the laws of physics would allow.
He passed me a box of noodles. I opened it cautiously.
“Did HR call again?” I asked, mouth full.
“No. They’re scared of me.”
“Fair.”
“But Legal emailed.”
“About what?”
“Apparently, our fake relationship is doing wonders for investor confidence. We’ve been invited to a tech summit in Aspen next month. Couples retreat style.”
I choked.
“Do I get a raise for this?”
He sipped his whiskey. “You get to live rent-free in a penthouse with heated floors.”
“I also get to listen to you monologue about spreadsheets while shirtless.”
“s*x appeal,” he said without blinking.
“I hate you.”
He looked at me then. Really looked.
“No, you don’t.”
My stomach did something traitorous. Something fluttery and annoying.
“I hate 93% of you,” I corrected. “The rest is just good jawline.”
He gave me a small, sharp smile.
“The rest is worse.”
---
Later that night, I wandered into the kitchen to find him sitting in his wheelchair at the island, bare arms, laptop open, phone to his ear. I caught something in his voice I hadn’t heard before. Tension. Not the sarcastic kind. The real kind.
“Just send me the damn file,” he snapped. “I don’t care what PR says. They work for me.”
He hung up, jaw tight.
“You okay?” I asked softly.
He didn’t look at me.
“Bad call?”
“Just the usual vultures,” he said. “Media wants a new angle. They’re starting to question how real this is.”
“They’re not wrong,” I said, pouring a glass of wine.
“No,” he said slowly. “They’re not.”
I sipped. He didn’t speak.
Then, out of nowhere, he said, “They want us to kiss. On camera. At the summit.”
I nearly dropped the wine.
“Excuse me?”
“They want photos. Candids. Proof.”
My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
“We’re not doing that.”
“We might have to.”
“Adam.”
“Relax. It’s three seconds of mild contact. It’s not a scandal.”
“I am not kissing my boss in front of investors.”
He turned to me, eyes unreadable.
“No,” he said quietly. “You’d rather do it when no one’s watching.”
Something twisted between us. Dark. Charged. Dangerous.
I didn’t answer. He didn’t either.
Silence stretched like wire.
Then he added, voice low, sharp—
“Sleep well, sunshine. You’re going to need it.”
I turned and left before I said something I couldn’t take back.
Because I wasn’t sure what was more terrifying—
The fake kiss he mentioned…
Or the fact that part of me wanted it.
- Writer
