Strictly business: After office hours

Chapter One: Late Morning, Early Trouble “Good morning, Ms. Vale.” His voice cuts through the quiet hum of the office like it knows it owns the room. I glance up from my laptop, trying to appear calm, professional. Mission failed immediately. “Morning, Mr. Carrington,” I say evenly, even though I can feel my pulse spiking. My hands won’t stop tapping against the keyboard. I hate that I notice the way his tie is slightly loosened, or how his sleeve rides up just enough to show the cuff of his watch. Nothing about me is professional right now except the words I’m saying. He leans over my desk to look at a report I’ve been working on. His cologne—warm, faintly spicy—hits me just enough to make me aware of how close he is. Too close. I glance down at the spreadsheets in front of me. Numbers never make me feel like this. “You’ve adjusted the Thompson account projections,” he says, voice low. Not accusatory. Observant. Watching. And suddenly I feel like every thought I’ve ever had about him is hiding behind my eyes. “Yes,” I say. My voice is steadier than I feel. “I revised the forecast based on last quarter’s trends.” Professional. Neutral. Not trembling. His gaze lingers. Too long. “Good work,” he murmurs, and I swear I feel heat creep up the back of my neck. Good work. Innocent words, but I almost want him to say something else. Something that acknowledges the things I shouldn’t be thinking about. I clear my throat and look back at my laptop. My thoughts betray me as always. Why do I imagine him leaning closer? Why does the way he adjusts his cuff make me want to bite my lip? Professional, I tell myself. Professional. “Anything else?” I ask, careful to sound neutral. He hesitates, tilting his head, and suddenly the small, private smile he rarely shows appears. Just for me. Just for that half-second. “Not for now. But I’ll check back.” And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me staring at the report like it holds all the answers to my suddenly chaotic brain. Professional. Restraint. Focus. Yes. Right. And then I whisper under my breath, the part of me no one else ever hears: God, he’s impossible. Mr. Carrington walked back to his office, his tailored jacket swinging slightly with each step, and I swear for a second I almost drooled on myself. Professionalism, I remind myself. Focus. Breathe. I glance down at the report in front of me, but my eyes refuse to cooperate. Instead of numbers, I see the outline of his jaw, the way his tie dips just enough to expose the top of his crisp white shirt, the faint curl of hair at his temple. He moves like he owns the air around him, like the office itself conspires to make every woman in it notice him. And yet somehow, he hasn’t even looked at me directly in the past five seconds. “Focus, Vale,” I mutter under my breath. Typing sounds echo from my fingers, but they are nothing compared to the storm in my head. Every fiber of my body is tuned to him, even when my mouth refuses to admit it. I hate that he does this to me. Hate it and love it in equal measure. I hear a soft click as his office door closes behind him. The sound reverberates through the otherwise quiet floor. My heartbeat picks up. Of course, he’s gone. He’s supposed to be gone. But why does the sound of that door snapping shut feel like the end of some invisible barrier I’ve been holding myself behind? The office feels suddenly warmer. I glance around, half-expecting someone to notice the flush creeping up my neck, but everyone else is buried in their own screens, oblivious. Oblivious. Lucky. Lucky and boring. I stand and walk toward the window, pretending to stretch. My reflection stares back at me, wide-eyed, hair slightly messy from the constant tension I’ve been carrying. I smooth it down, tug at my blazer, tell myself I am professional, competent, in control. And yet, as I look out at the city skyline, my mind is consumed with him. Mr. Carrington. His scent, his presence, the way he somehow manages to make a simple report review feel like a personal challenge to my self-restraint. “Vale?” The soft voice of my coworker snaps me back. Emily, perched in the next cubicle, leans over, eyes wide. “You look… distracted.” I force a small, polite smile. “Just a lot of work today.” Emily doesn’t buy it. She never does. “Uh-huh. Sure,” she says, smirking knowingly. “If your hands were anywhere near your keyboard, I’d be impressed.” I roll my eyes. “Focus, Emily. Please.” She chuckles but leans back. “Alright, fine. But whatever it is… just don’t melt in front of him. Or drool. Or anything.” I bite my lip to keep from hissing. Drool. Really? I think, staring back at her. She has no idea. No idea. And thankfully, she won’t. Because if anyone caught me thinking about him the way I do… I would never live it down. Returning to my desk, I sit and force my fingers to move over the keyboard again. I attempt to focus, to sink into the numbers and charts. But every click, every glance at the screen, every shuffle of papers reminds me he is upstairs, behind that closed door, unaware, untouchable, impossible. My mind drifts to small things. The way his tie hangs imperfectly at the nape of his neck. The sharp line of his collar against his jaw. The faint calluses on his hands from God knows what. And the worst part? The little half-smile he gives when he knows I’m paying attention. That smile, subtle and unreadable, haunts me even now. I lean back in my chair, close my eyes for a fraction of a second, and imagine him standing there again, just for a second. Breathing, present, alive, utterly commanding the space he inhabits. My hands tighten on the desk. My legs cross and uncross beneath it, a rhythm I can’t control. A knock on my cubicle wall startles me. “Vale?” Emily’s voice again. I force myself upright. “Yes?” “You’ve got to get a grip. Seriously. Or else you’ll be drooling in front of him next time.” I laugh, though it’s strained. She doesn’t get it. No one does. But that’s fine. That’s the way I like it. My thoughts, my tension, my fire—it’s mine to carry. And it’s all for him. The afternoon stretches on. I type. I organize. I breathe. But the memory of him walking back to his office, the slow, confident way he moves, remains embedded in my mind. And I realize, with a mixture of frustration and thrill, that I will never, ever be able to look at him normally again. Because every time he moves, every time he breathes, every time he glances—even without looking at me—I feel it. That impossible pull. That overwhelming, delicious tension. That makes the world shrink down to him… and me. I shake my head, trying to snap back to professionalism. Mission: continue work. Focus. Keep it together. And yet, as I glance at the closed door of his office, I know I am already defeated. Mr. Carrington has me. And he hasn’t even tried.