Make Me Yours, Daddy

-012-

~*JUNE*~

Today is the worst day of my life.

The f*****g worst of all.

I stare at the coffee machine, watching the dark liquid drip into the ceramic cup, and the anger in my chest swells so big I have to summon every fibre of my body not to wrap my hands around this goddamn machine and throw it against the wall.

I officially started working as the CEO’s secretary a few hours ago.

It still baffles me how I went from hiding from him to being his secretary.

And the first thing he made me do? Was to deliver his coffee.

This is the sixth time I have been standing at this coffee machine, all because the CEO wants me to deliver the perfect coffee mix for him.

Even when I do it exactly as he instructed, he still finds something to complain about, going on about the coffee being too hot, too cold, too much milk, not enough milk, too bitter, too sweet.

Gosh… I hate him.

I hate him so f*****g much.

He’s such an insufferable prick.

The coffee machine beeps and I grab the cup, not caring that the liquid sloshes over the rim and burns my fingers.

I slam it onto the tray, a little spilling onto the silver surface, and I don't even wipe it up.

Let it stain.

Let it burn a hole through the tray for all I care.

With hurried steps I move toward his office, my heels clicking against the marble floor like gunshots.

I perform the right etiquette according to Mr. Tristan Macaulay when I get to his office door.

I knock twice.

Wait three seconds.

Then I push the door open and enter with the tray held at waist level.

I keep my posture straight and my eyes down, making no eye contact unless spoken to.

The fakest smile I have ever managed stretches across my face as I move to his desk.

It feels like my cheeks might crack.

"I’m here with your coffee, sir," I say for the sixth time today.

He doesn't answer me.

Doesn't even look up.

He just keeps typing on his laptop, his fingers moving across the keyboard with this infuriating rhythm, like the sound of my voice doesn't even register in his brain.

Jesus… this man is so annoying.

I stand there for what feels like an hour.

My arm is starting to ache from holding the tray.

The coffee is getting cold.

And he just keeps typing, typing, typing, his brow furrowed, his jaw set, looking like some kind of marble statue that someone propped up in a chair and forgot to animate.

I wish I could just slam his head hard against that laptop and watch him bleed to death at this point.

Okay... that is a bit too much.

Maybe just a small slam will do. A little one. Just enough to knock some sense into him.

"Let me have the coffee," he finally speaks without looking at me.

His hand stretches out, and he still doesn't turn his head.

Like I'm not even worth the effort of looking at.

Stepping forward, I place the cup into his hand.

Our fingers don’t touch. I make sure of it.

He brings it to his lips and takes a sip.

I stand there waiting for his reaction, praying to every god I don't believe in that he loves this coffee.

Because if he doesn’t—and I have to make another one—I will actually smash that coffee machine this time.

I will grab it with my bare hands, throw it out the window, and watch it shatter on the pavement below.

And I will feel nothing but joy.

He lowers the cup, his face still stern.

No, not just stern—his handsome face is blank.

That’s the problem. Even when he’s being awful, he’s still handsome, with those sharp cheekbones, that jaw that could cut glass, and those eyes the color of vodka in a crystal glass.

He looks at me. "I hate this coffee."

My smile twitches.

"This is the worst," he continues, his voice flat, matter-of-fact, like he’s stating the sky is blue. "It has too much sugar. I can barely taste the coffee. Take it away and go make another one. And this time, make sure it has less sugar."

Will me smashing his head against his laptop be valid right now? Legally? Morally? Ethically?

He raises one eyebrow. "What are you waiting for? Run along."

I force the biggest smile of my entire existence.

It hurts. It physically hurts my face but I maintain it anyway.

"Okay, sir."

Taking the cup from his hand, I turn on my heel and walk out of the office before I do something that gets me arrested.

The moment the door closes behind me, I move—fast.

My feet carry me toward the coffee machine like they have a mind of their own.

The second I’m standing in front of it, I unleash my inner demons.

"Arrrgh! " The sound rips out of my throat. "f**k! f**k! f*****g fuck."

The employees around me stop what they're doing and stare at me like I'm crazy.

At this point, I probably am.

Completely and utterly crazy.

I hear them murmuring, their whispers drifting through the air.

"Is she okay?"

"She looks like she’s about to explode."

"That’s the CEO’s new secretary."

"Poor thing."

Still, I don’t care.

I don’t care what they think or what they say.

All I care about is making a perfect coffee for that annoying prick who makes me want to rip my hair out by the roots.

And restraining myself from destroying this stupid coffee machine like I planned, because I definitely don’t have the money to replace it.

For all I know, it may be worth hundreds of dollars.

I take a deep breath.

Then another.

And another.

I press the settings on the coffee machine, making it brew exactly how he said I should.

The machine hums to life, grinding the beans before pulling the coffee through with steady, precise pressure.

Once it finishes, I stand there for a second, watching it drip into the cup like it’s taking its time just to test me.

I add a little sugar, measuring it carefully as the white granules fall into the cup, counting them like they’re drops of my own blood.

Then I stir it until it dissolves.

I pour in a little milk, just enough, watching it swirl and blend into the dark coffee.

I stir exactly three times.

Then I place the cup on the tray and head back to his office.

He’s still typing when I enter, still not looking at me.

I move to his desk and set the coffee down in front of him, this time not waiting for him to reach for it.

I just stand there, my hands clasped behind my back, my smile fixed in place like a mask I can’t take off.

He picks up the cup and takes a sip.

And then he starts nagging again.

To be honest, I don’t hear a word he says.

I’m not listening. I can’t listen.

My brain has shut down, evacuated and left the building.

All I can do is stare at his lips as they move.

His lips are so perfect, shaped like a bow, the bottom one slightly fuller than the top.

Somehow, they become the only thing I can focus on.

The way they form words I don’t comprehend.

The way his tongue flicks out to wet them between sentences.

And the way the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s holding back a smile, stirs something inside me.

"June." I hear my name, and it drags me from my daze.

"Yeah?"

His eyes narrow. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Emm..." I scramble, my heart hammering. "Yes."

"What was the last thing I said?"

I panic.

"Coffee?" The word comes out before I can stop it.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a heavy sigh so deep I feel it in my own chest.

His eyes close, and his shoulders drop.

He looks like a man who’s been carrying the weight of the world, and someone has just added another brick.

"Just leave my office," he growls.

I blink. "I should go?"

"Yes. Leave." He waves his hand toward the door, a dismissive gesture that makes something hot flare in my stomach. "Now."

"What about your coffee?"

He finally looks at me, really looks at me, and his eyes are so tired I almost feel bad. "You make horrible coffee."

"Thank you, sir."

The word slips out of my mouth like a traitor.

I don’t know why the hell I said it.

And I don’t even know why I smiled when I said it.

He looks at me like I’m out of my mind.

I mentally slap myself.

Way to go, June. Really. Top-tier professionalism.

He tells you your coffee is horrible and you thank him. Next you’ll curtsy.

"What are you waiting for?" He gestures to the door again, more firmly this time. "Leave."

"Okay," I say, giving a small bow.

Then I turn and walk out, making my way tiredly to my new desk, which sits just outside his office like a little island of misery in a sea of corporate hell.

The moment I get there, I collapse into the chair and let my head fall back.

"f**k," I mutter.

The ceiling stares back at me, white and blank and completely unhelpful.

I close my eyes, but it doesn’t help.

I can still see his lips moving, still hear his voice, still feel the weight of his gaze when he finally looked at me.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, making my eyes snap open.

I pull it out, squinting at the screen.

A message notification.

I open it.

My eyes widen.

Unknown number: ‘Hey June, it’s me Andrew. It’s been a while. I’ve missed you so much. Please, can we meet up and talk?’