Too Close to Pretend
1309 Words
Chapter Three: Too Close to Pretend
If I had known how much effort it would take to pretend Adrian Hale was just another name on an organizational chart, I might have turned down the offer.
But I didn’t.
I told myself I could handle it. That I was an adult, a professional, someone capable of separating one reckless night from the reality of a demanding job. I told myself the memory of him would fade the way all intense things eventually did, dulled by routine, softened by time.
By the end of my first week, I knew I had lied to myself.
The office was beautiful in a cold, deliberate way. Glass walls. Neutral colors. The kind of space where emotions felt like intruders. I arrived early every day, partly because I wanted to make a good impression, and partly because I wanted to avoid running into him unexpectedly.
It didn’t work.
Adrian had a presence that was impossible to ignore. Even when he wasn’t in the room, people spoke about him with a mix of admiration and caution. He was respected. Untouchable. The kind of man whose approval carried weight.
And I was painfully aware that I had seen him untethered, vulnerable, human.
That knowledge burned in my chest every time I caught sight of him across the office.
We didn’t speak beyond what was necessary. Emails were short, professional. Meetings were efficient. If our eyes met, it was brief, quick enough to pass as accidental, long enough to leave me unsettled.
I thought that was the worst of it.
I was wrong.
“Ms. Carter.”
I looked up from my desk to see Helen from operations standing there, tablet in hand. “Yes?”
“There’s been a slight change,” she said. “You’ll be working directly with Mr. Hale on the Virex account.”
My heart stuttered.
Directly.
I kept my expression neutral. “Of course.”
She smiled, unaware of the internal chaos she had just unleashed. “He’s expecting you in his office in ten minutes.”
Ten minutes.
I nodded and watched her walk away, my thoughts spiraling. I sat there for a moment, forcing my breathing to slow. This was fine. This was professional. I could do this.
I stood, straightened my clothes, and walked down the corridor toward his office, each step feeling heavier than the last.
The door was open.
He was standing by the window when I walked in, his back to me, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. The city stretched out below him, glass and steel glinting in the afternoon light.
“Come in,” he said without turning around.
The sound of his voice still did things to me. I hated that.
I closed the door behind me. “You want to see me?”
He turned then, and the way his gaze settled on me made my pulse jump. There was something different in his expression today, less guarded, more intense.
“Yes,” he said. “Have a seat.”
I did, placing my notebook neatly on my lap.
“The Virex account is… sensitive,” he continued. “High stakes. Tight deadlines. I need someone who can keep up.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t,” I replied.
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I figured.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and charged.
“We’ll be working closely,” he said. “Long hours. Frequent meetings.”
I met his gaze. “I understand.”
His eyes searched my face, as if he were looking for cracks, for hesitation. He found none.
“Good,” he said. “Then let’s be clear.”
My shoulders tensed.
“What happened between us,” he continued, voice low, “cannot interfere with this project.”
There it was. The acknowledgment I hadn’t known whether I wanted.
“I agree,” I said evenly.
“Nothing personal,” he added.
I held his gaze. “You’re the one who taught me that lesson.”
Something flickered in his eyes, regret, maybe, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
“Then we’re on the same page,” he said.
We weren’t.
The next few weeks were torture disguised as productivity.
We worked side by side, sometimes for hours at a stretch. Strategy sessions. Late-night revisions. Calls that stretched past reasonable hours. The closer we worked, the harder it became to ignore the undercurrent between us.
He was meticulous, focused, demanding, but never unfair. He challenged my ideas, pushed me to refine my thinking, and listened when I spoke. There was a quiet respect in the way he treated me that only made things worse.
Sometimes, when he leaned over my shoulder to look at my screen, I could smell his cologne, clean, understated, devastatingly familiar. Sometimes our hands brushed when we reached for the same document, and the jolt that followed made it hard to concentrate.
We never spoke of the night again.
But it lived in the spaces between us.
One evening, the office had emptied out long before we noticed. The lights were dimmed automatically, casting everything in soft shadows. My eyes ached from staring at numbers, my mind foggy with exhaustion.
I stretched slightly in my chair. “I think that’s the last revision.”
Adrian looked up from his laptop. “You’re right.”
He closed it and leaned back, running a hand through his hair. The gesture felt intimate in a way it shouldn’t have.
“You should go home,” he said. “It’s late.”
“So should you,” I replied.
Our eyes met.
The air shifted.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The silence pressed in, heavy with unspoken things. I could see the conflict written across his face, the careful restraint, the desire he didn’t want to acknowledge.
“You ever regret that night?” I asked quietly, surprising even myself.
His gaze sharpened. “Every day.”
The honesty in his voice made my breath catch.
“Because it shouldn’t have happened,” he continued.
“Or because you wish it had lasted longer?” I asked.
His jaw tightened. “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
I stood slowly, my heart pounding. “Adrian”
“Don’t,” he said, standing as well. “If we cross that line again, there’s no pretending after.”
I took a step closer. “You’re the only one pretending.”
His control snapped.
In two strides, he closed the distance between us, stopping just short of touching me. His presence was overwhelming, his restraint visibly strained.
“You think this is easy for me?” he asked, voice rough. “You think I don’t remember exactly how you felt in my arms?”
My breath hitched. “Then why keep pushing me away?”
“Because I don’t trust myself with you,” he admitted.
The words sent a shiver through me.
For a heartbeat, I thought he might kiss me. I wanted him to. The longing was almost unbearable.
Instead, he stepped back.
“This can’t happen,” he said again, quieter now. “Not like this.”
I nodded, my chest aching. “Then don’t look at me like I’m something you’re afraid to want.”
He didn’t respond.
I gathered my things and left his office without another word, my emotions tangled and raw.
That night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling, his words replaying in my mind.
I don’t trust myself with you.
I didn’t know what scared me more, that he felt the same pull I did, or that he was fighting it just as hard.
Because some fires don’t die when you walk away.
They wait.
And I knew, with aching certainty, that whatever was growing between us was far from finished.
- Writer
