Until He Sees Me - Broken Yet His

Chapter 14 - A Team Now

The afternoon meeting goes smoothly. The permit crisis is officially averted.

When I get back to the office, there’s coffee on my desk. Not office swill, but something that smells expensive. A small note sits beside it: ‘For the late nights. —M’

I take a sip and nearly moan. Rich, smooth, with a whisper of caramel. My shoulders unclench for the first time in days.

My phone buzzes. It’s the same number from the night I arrived in Miami.

How’s the coffee? —Massimo

I stare at the message for a beat before typing back: Perfect. Thank you. How did you get my number?

I’m the boss. I have everyone’s number.

Fair point. Thank you for this morning. I really appreciate it.

You don’t need to thank me. We’re a team now.

A team?

You’ll see.

I set the phone down, more confused than ever. What does he mean, we’re a team? And why does the idea of working more closely with him make my pulse quicken instead of making me want to run?

Later, I update Isabelle on the meeting’s success.

“See?” she says with a smug, knowing smile. “Not so bad, was it?”

“No,” I admit. “Actually, it was good.”

“Massimo’s not the monster you thought?”

I think about it and answer honestly. “No. I don’t think he is.”

“He’s complicated,” Isabelle warns. “But he’s fair, and he’ll do everything for his people. Once he decides he likes you…” She trails off, giving me a look that says more than words.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just—be careful, Emma.”

“Careful of what?”

She studies me like she’s weighing something important. “He’s invested in this project succeeding. Know the difference between him supporting your work and him supporting you.”

My cheeks warm. “It’s professional,” I say, too quickly.

“If you say so.” She smiles, but I can tell she doesn’t fully believe me.

As I walk back to my desk, his words echo again in my head: We’re a team now.

I don’t know exactly what that means, but something tells me I’m about to find out.

⸻

Over the next week I barely see Massimo. Meetings, flights, investor dinners he’s everywhere but never in one place for long. Still, I feel his presence.

Small things appear: a Post-it stuck to a design mockup ‘Good instinct here.’ an email at 2 a.m. with a supplier contact I’ve been chasing, Marcus Rodriguez on the line to say the permits cleared early because “Massimo made it a priority.” He’s helping without hovering, supporting without suffocating.

It’s… nice. Confusing, but nice. At first I thought it was damage control after the permit mess, but watching how he moves through the office, I realize he’s like that with everyone. Control is his language. The small personal touches, coffee on my desk, the occasional ping to ask if I need anything feel aimed at me, and that’s the part that throws me off.

On Friday afternoon I’m buried in vendor contracts when Isabelle calls.

“Emma, can you come to the Azure? I need you to see something.”

Twenty minutes later we’re on the terrace. The afternoon light is honest and unforgiving; it reveals both flaw and possibility.

“What do you think?” Isabelle asks, gesturing toward the newly installed framework for the lighting system.

I walk the terrace, seeing angles, picturing how people will move when fixtures and crowds are in place. “It’s good. Really good. But this eastern edge”—I point—“we’ll need to adjust. Morning light will hit those fixtures and wash everything out if we leave them there.”

“Smart catch,” Isabelle says.

A voice behind me: “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

Massimo’s sleeves are rolled up, sunglasses pushed onto his head. He looks less CEO in this moment and more like someone who’s used to getting his hands dirty.

“Last-minute inspection,” he says. “Wanted to see the progress.” He scans the space and then looks at me. “Isabelle says you’ve been working nonstop.”

“There’s a lot to do,” I say.

“She also said you’re not sleeping much.” Traitor Isabelle.

“I sleep enough,” I mutter.

He doesn’t look convinced. “Show me.”

So I do. I walk him through the design — flow, sightlines, lighting cues, palette. He listens without interrupting, asks a question here and there that proves he’s not just looking; he’s understanding.

“And the color palette?” he asks finally.

“Coral and cream for the base, accents of sea-glass and gold,” I say. “It should feel like dawn over the bay—fresh, quiet, promising.”

He’s silent for a beat, looking at the horizon, then back at me with an expression I can’t decode. “You get it. What I wanted this place to be. I couldn’t say it, but you… you see it.”

Heat blooms in my chest. “That’s my job,” I try to sound casual.

“It’s more than that.” He steps closer; the scent of his cologne is a distraction. “You have a gift for this. For finding the soul of a space.”

Construction noise recedes for a second, and that line hangs between us, dangerous and bright.

His phone buzzes. He glances down, then back up. “I should take this. But—Emma?” he says.

“Yes?”

“Good work. Really.”

Then he turns away, phone to his ear, leaving me standing with the echo of the compliment and a heart doing stupid things.

Isabelle materializes at my side, grinning.

“Don’t say it.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it loud enough.”

She laughs. “Remember what I said. Be careful.”

“It’s work,” I insist.

“If you say so, honey.”

As Massimo disappears into the building, I ask myself whether I’ve been lying—to her, to myself, or both. Maybe both.

⸻

That evening at the apartment I can’t stop replaying how he looked at me. Like he found something he hadn’t expected. Like he… liked it.

No. He’s my boss. This is professional.

My phone buzzes. A new text.

The design is brilliant. Don’t work too late. —M

I stare at the message, thumb hovering. What do I say?

Thank you. I’ll try.

You won’t. But at least pretend for my peace of mind.

Despite myself, I smile.

How do you know I won’t?

Because I recognize the type. Perfectionists who can’t let go until everything’s exactly right.

Takes one to know one. I tell him, knowing now that he is worse than me in that.

Exactly. Which is why I know you’ll be up until midnight anyway. At least eat something.

The casual concern tightens something in my chest. When was the last time someone checked if I’d eaten?

I will. Promise.

Good. See you Monday. Buonanotte, piccola. —M

The little Italian nickname at the end lands softer than the rest, a private warmth, oddly intimate, and too soft for a men like him for is employee.

This is dangerous territory.

I don’t delete the messages.

And that tells me everything I need to know about how much trouble I’m in, way more than I am ready to admit to myself.