Episode Three
1145 Words
DAMIEN'S POV
Jet lag is a b***h.
Pardon my French or Italian, considering I just got back from Milan. Three weeks of boardroom showdowns, soul-crushing investor meetings, and fake air kisses from CEOs with egos the size of Saturn. My body was still on Europe time, my brain was fried, and all I wanted was a damn black coffee and a solid 10 hours of sleep. Instead, I was met with a whirlwind of vanilla caramel espresso, a clumsy girl in oversized heels, and a shirt that costs more than most people’s rent soaking in a steamy bath of caffeine.
Welcome home, Damien.
And yet… I wasn’t even mad.
I watched her trip, fall forward, and spill her liquid anxiety all over me like she’d been rehearsing the move for weeks. Her eyes never even met mine before she dragged me out of the elevator like some undercover laundromat superhero. My security team was too stunned to react, and frankly, so was I.
It’s not every day a stranger pulls you into a bathroom and starts undressing you without even buying you dinner first.
She babbled. Tried to clean my shirt. Didn’t look me in the eye until it was too late. And when she did bam.
Big brown eyes. Wild, tired, alive.
She looked like chaos wrapped in nerves and sarcasm. A bit disheveled, too fast for her good. But there was something else. The way she moved, spoke, and existed wasn't polished or practiced like the women I usually encountered. It was real.
And it intrigued me.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t about to write a poem about her or anything, but I could already tell she was going to be a problem.
She handed me a damn Hello Kitty hoodie, for God’s sake, and bolted. Pink. Sparkly. Hooded.
When I stepped out of the bathroom stall wearing that thing, even Bob raised an eyebrow. And that man has seen me in war zones and high-stakes negotiations. He doesn’t flinch.
I got to the reception and saw her white as a ghost. While looking at me, another lady there tried to cover up for her.
But I wasn't letting her go that easily. I walked up to her, bent down to her level and whispered in her ear, "I'll deal with you later,” I told her. I meant it. And I didn’t say it to scare her. I said it because I had no idea what else to say. My head was still spinning. So was she.
But my first meeting with Andrew.
The private elevator took us straight to the top floor, to Andrew Kingsley’s high-rise kingdom of leather couches and crystal decanters. He was already waiting when I stepped out, feet kicked up on his desk like he didn’t own half the damn city.
“You,” he said, taking one look at me and bursting into the kind of laugh that could fund a therapy session.
“Oh no, what the hell are you wearing?”
“You don’t want to know,” I muttered, throwing him a flat look as I peeled off the hoodie and dumped it on his desk.
“Wait is that glitter?” He stood up, squinting. “Is this… Hello Kitty?”
I didn’t respond. I just dropped into the seat opposite him.
“My God,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’ve known you for over ten years, and I’ve never seen you look more defeated.”
“Long flight,” I said.
“Nope. "That’s not jet lag. "That’s the appearance of a man who’s been tackled by a receptionist in a bathroom and left wearing a pink children’s hoodie.”
He was enjoying this way too much.
“Stop grinning like an i***t and pour me something strong,” I growled, massaging my temples.
He obliged, sliding me a glass of some 30-year-old scotch that probably cost more than the hoodie. I downed it in one go.
“So,” he said, finally sitting down again, still smirking. “What do you want as a welcome-back gift, Damien? A yacht? Another company to swallow whole?”
I didn’t hesitate.
“I want your receptionist.”
He choked. “I what?”
“The one who spilled coffee on me. Transfer her to my company.”
Andrew blinked. “You’re serious?”
I nodded. “As a cardiac arrest.”
He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You’ve been back in the country for five hours, and you already want to steal one of my employees? Based on what, exactly? Her taste in animated fashion?”
“She’s… interesting,” I said. “There’s something about her.”
He squinted. “Do I need to be worried?”
“I don’t even know her name yet,” I muttered. “I just want to know more.”
Andrew studied me, then shrugged. “She’s good at her job. I’ll think about it. But if you traumatize her, you’re paying her therapy bills.”
“Deal.”
When I left the penthouse, I took the elevator back down, half expecting to see her again. Maybe she’d be behind the desk, typing away or awkwardly avoiding eye contact with every man in a suit. But the front desk was empty. Another girl was there, chipper and caffeinated and completely not her.
I looked around, pretending to study architecture or whatever people pretend to do when they’re searching for someone.
Bob stood beside me, silent as usual. Until I broke the quiet.
“She’s not here,” I said, almost to myself.
Bob gave me a small nod.
“I want everything you can to get me on her,” I added.
He didn’t ask questions. He never does.
“Name?” he asked.
I sighed. “That’s the fun part. I don’t know.”
Bob raised an eyebrow. “Noted.”
“I want to know where she lives, where she studied, what hospital she was born in, and if she has any unpaid parking tickets.”
“You got it.”
And just like that, the game was on.
She’d made a mess of my morning and somehow left me more alert than any amount of caffeine ever could. Now, I need to figure out why. I’ve met thousands of people in my life: ambitious, brilliant, and boring. But this one? She was none of those. And yet… I couldn’t get her out of my head.
Maybe it was the eyes. Or the hoodie. Or the way she pulled me like she had nothing to lose.
I needed to know her story. And I would.
Even if I had to buy every Hello Kitty hoodie in New York City just to get a second chance at that conversation.
Game on, receptionist.
- Writer
