The Art of Not Kissing Your Boss in a Closet
1085 Words
~Ava’s~
I made exactly four bad decisions before 9 a.m.
1. I wore the red blouse that hugged too hard in the chest and made my bra angry.
2. I drank expired oat milk in my coffee.
3. I looked directly into Adam Hart’s face during our weekly finance call and nearly forgot what numbers were.
4. I got stuck in a supply closet. With him.
Let me explain.
It started when the IT guy accidentally triggered a fire alarm during server maintenance, which sent half the building into panic mode and shoved the other half including me into the elevator with Adam.
Somehow, we ended up rerouted to the wrong floor.
Somehow, someone locked the damn stairwell.
Somehow, a flustered intern pointed to the janitor's closet and said, “You can wait in there if you don’t mind mops.”
And somehow because of God, fate, or my ongoing punishment for not recycling in college I ended up trapped in a literal cleaning supply cage with my boss.
“Fantastic,” I muttered, wedged between a vacuum and a box of Clorox wipes. “This day couldn’t get worse.”
Adam wheeled himself in slowly, scanning the cramped space with visible distaste.
“You know,” he said, “when I envisioned us in tight quarters, there was a lot less bleach involved.”
“Say another word and I’ll mop you.”
His smirk was criminal.
“You’re in a mood.”
“I’m in a closet. With you. I think I’m allowed.”
He shrugged and pulled his phone out like this was a perfectly normal Tuesday. “Relax. I’ll call security.”
“Please do. Before I use a Swiffer as a murder weapon.”
I tried to breathe through the chaos. The room was tiny. Hot. Smelled vaguely like citrus death and man. His man. Because Adam Hart smelled like every bad decision I’d ever made dark cologne, clean laundry, and ego.
“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“You think everything’s about you.”
He finally looked up, and something about the quiet between us shifted.
His voice dropped. “You’re shaking.”
I folded my arms. “No, I’m not.”
“You’re claustrophobic.”
“I’m annoyed.”
“You’re both.”
“Congratulations on being observant.”
He tucked his phone away and rolled closer, closing the already non-existent gap between us.
“Want a distraction?” he said.
I blinked. “What kind of distraction?”
He raised a brow. “The legal kind.”
I rolled my eyes. “Then what’s the point?”
He laughed. Softly. A rare sound, like snow falling in July.
“You’re dangerous when you’re honest,” he said.
“And you’re exhausting when you’re breathing.”
We locked eyes.
It didn’t feel fake.
It didn’t feel corporate.
It didn’t feel like enemies.
It felt like a match hovering near gasoline.
Before either of us could speak, the door creaked open, and Janice from HR poked her head in.
“Oh,” she said. “You're... in here.”
“We’re hiding from you,” Adam replied without missing a beat.
Janice made a face like someone had insulted her houseplants. “I’ll update the incident report.”
“You do that.”
Once she was gone, I turned back to him. “Why are you like this?”
He leaned in. “Because I like watching you squirm.”
“You know what I like?”
“Me?”
“A life without lawsuits.”
He grinned. “Too late, sunshine. We’re in too deep.”
---
Adam’s POV
Back at the office, she wouldn’t look at me.
Not during the team meeting.
Not during lunch.
Not even when I dropped my pen on purpose and made her pick it up like the petty king I am.
She was pissed.
And I? I was fascinated.
Ava Monroe was like a storm pretending to be a sunrise. She glittered when she was furious. And I’d spent years surrounded by people who lied for a living, so seeing someone who burned this bright—it messed with me.
I’d never admit it out loud, but I liked the way she looked at me when she was trying not to like me.
It was honest. Hungry. Human.
And it made me forget about the chair. About the pity. About the weight of being touched only when people felt obligated, not when they wanted to.
She wanted to.
Even if she didn’t know it yet.
---
Ava’s POV
That night, I sat at the penthouse counter with a glass of wine and a very long list of regrets.
Adam rolled into the kitchen wearing sweatpants, which should’ve been illegal. I glanced away. He noticed.
“Still mad about the closet?” he asked.
“Still mad about your face.”
He snorted and opened the fridge. “You want something real, Ava?”
I froze.
“What does that mean?”
He turned, eyes softer than I’d ever seen them.
“You act like this is all just a joke. Like you’re not affected. But you are.”
I laughed, nervous. “Because you’re annoying. And hot. Annoyingly hot.”
“You ever wonder if that’s not all it is?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
I looked down at my wine.
“I can’t afford to like you,” I said.
He rolled closer. Stopped inches from me.
“Why?”
“Because it’s not in the contract. Because you’re broken.”
He didn’t flinch.
He just nodded. “So are you.”
Something cracked in my chest.
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face. Slow. Careful. Like he knew I was seconds from running.
“You think I’m scary because I can’t walk,” he said. “But you’re the one always running.”
I didn’t answer.
Because he was right.
---
Later that night
We didn’t kiss.
But we stared too long.
We didn’t touch.
But the space between us felt like a scream.
He went to bed first.
I sat on the couch until 2 a.m., heart racing, thoughts tangled.
Because somewhere between fake dating and real feelings, I’d forgotten one very crucial rule.
Never fall for your boss.
Especially if he’s arrogant.
Especially if he’s paralyzed.
Especially if he’s starting to make you wish every lie was the truth.
- Writer
