Strictly business: After office hours

Chapter 2

I returned to my desk, trying to focus on the spreadsheets again, but every time I looked up, I saw the corner of his office, the blinds partially drawn, the shadow of him moving behind the glass. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, then I typed, then paused, then typed again. The room felt smaller, warmer, tighter with every thought of him.

Emily glanced at me from across the floor, raising her eyebrows in silent judgment. I ignored her. My mind was already elsewhere, tracing the line of his jaw, imagining the subtle shift of his shoulder when he leans over his desk, thinking about how close he’d been earlier, how easy it would be for him to reach across and—

“Vale,” his voice came, low and deliberate. My stomach twisted. He stood in the doorway, hand resting casually on the frame, tie slightly undone, hair falling just enough to look careless and calculated at the same time.

“Yes, sir?” I asked, sitting straighter, smoothing my skirt down, forcing my voice to stay even.

“Come in,” he said.

I rose and crossed the floor slowly, heels clicking against the polished surface. My pulse was loud, insistent, and I hated that he probably didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, and that was worse.

He didn’t move as I approached. I stopped in front of the desk, my hands pressed lightly to the edge to steady myself. His gaze swept over me, quiet, assessing, and I could feel my body respond to the attention even as I tried to stay professional.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing toward the chair in front of him.

I lowered myself carefully, keeping my back straight, my hands folded neatly in my lap, pretending I wasn’t aware of the heat rising along my spine.

“I’ve been reviewing your work on the Thompson account,” he said. His tone was neutral, calm, but the weight of it pressed against me, made me lean forward slightly without realizing.

“I updated the projections to reflect last quarter,” I said, fingers gripping the edge of the chair. “I double-checked seasonality trends and adjusted for client requests. Everything should align now.”

He leaned back slightly, one hand brushing a paper toward me. My fingers brushed his ever so lightly as I reached for it. A shock of awareness ran through me. He didn’t move his hand away. He didn’t need to. The moment stretched, unspoken, undeniable, and I felt heat crawl up my neck.

“Good,” he said, voice low, controlled. The single word was enough to make me shiver. I nodded, folding the paper neatly and smoothing my blazer.

I stood then, letting the chair slide back silently. My knees felt weak, my breath shallow. He watched me, calm, unreadable, and my chest tightened. The pull between us was dangerous, consuming. I walked toward the door, every step measured, every movement forced to appear professional, while my mind replayed every detail from the moment I entered.

The door closed behind me with a soft click, and I leaned back against my desk, exhaling slowly. My hands trembled slightly as I returned to the keyboard, but I didn’t stop thinking about him, about the way he stood, about the silent command in his gaze, about the impossible tension he carried effortlessly.

I typed, I deleted, I typed again. My work was finished, but my mind wasn’t.

By the time I decided to work efficiently, it was lunchtime. My stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten, though the thought barely registered over the constant replay of him leaning over the desk, the faint warmth of his presence still lingering in my skin. I packed my things slowly, deliberately, wanting to savor the few minutes before I had to leave the floor, before I had to step away from the quiet electricity he left behind.

As I walked toward the cafeteria, I kept my posture perfect, shoulders back, chin high, but my mind refused to cooperate. Every step felt measured, calculated, yet my thoughts were scattered across his office, the tilt of his head, the way his eyes followed mine even when he pretended not to. I shook my head slightly, trying to push the images away, telling myself it was ridiculous, yet the heat rising in my chest betrayed my own reasoning.

I ordered quickly, barely tasting the food as I sat down at a table near the window. The city outside gleamed in the midday sun, but I barely noticed. My gaze kept drifting to the office building across the street, imagining him there, untouchable, still in control, still entirely oblivious—or perhaps entirely aware—of the effect he had on me.

Halfway through my sandwich, my phone buzzed. A new message. From him.

Come see me after lunch.

My fork paused midair. I swallowed hard, my heartbeat kicking up a notch, and I felt my fingers grow clammy. After lunch. Not now. Not yet. But soon.

I finished eating mechanically, each bite feeling heavier than the last, and when I finally stood, I straightened my skirt, smoothed my blouse, and walked back toward the office. My heels clicked on the floor, echoing in my own ears, each step a reminder that soon, I would have to confront him again. And yet, a part of me wanted it. Wanted him.

By the time I reached the office, I was hyper-aware of every sound, every movement. The hum of the air conditioner, the faint tapping of keyboards, the shuffle of papers—it all faded behind the anticipation thrumming in my veins. I passed Emily, who gave me a knowing look, and I forced a tight-lipped smile, not daring to admit how completely he had me unspooled.

I approached his office door, my hand hovering over the handle. I exhaled slowly, telling myself to stay professional, to keep control, to walk in like nothing was different from any other meeting. My pulse betrayed me, thrumming against my chest, my fingers itching to touch, to reach, to feel the quiet command he always seemed to exude.

I knocked lightly.

“Enter,” he said.

The single word made my knees weak as I stepped inside. He was there, standing by the window with his back to me, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other resting lightly on the sill. The light from outside cut across his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders, the subtle curve of his neck.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.

I obeyed, sliding into the seat carefully, aware of the faint brush of the fabric against my legs, the way the room seemed smaller with him here. He finally turned, eyes meeting mine with that quiet intensity that always left me unsteady.

“Vale,” he said, voice low, deliberate, “we need to discuss the Thompson account projections.”

And just like that, the room shrank, the air thickened, and I knew that nothing about this conversation would be just work.

In my stomach I wondered, what's it with this Thompson account anyway, can't he call me just for me, to discuss me.

You might be wondering why he calls me within seconds. That’s because I’m his secretary. I’m Valentina Matteo, his right hand, the one who keeps the chaos of his office in order, organizes his schedule, answers his calls, and knows just enough about him to keep my own heart dangerously unsteady.

At least that’s who I am at work, professional and competent. But at home, I’m just the pathetic stepdaughter of a gang leader, living in a house that filled with violence, no fun.