I knocked over a pen holder on Tuesday. On Wednesday, I misplaced a file for ten whole minutes before finding it exactly where it was supposed to be. On Thursday, I almost tripped over the edge of the rug in the executive lobby and an hour later, the rug was gone. Just gone without an announcement or explanation. People from the maintenance department just showed up, rolled it away, and pretended it never existed.
The day after the coffee incident with Mr. Popov, I went to get his coffee and discovered that the ceramic mugs have been replaced with single-use cups. With lids.
Lids.
I remember staring at them for a full thirty seconds, my stomach twisting with something strange and warm.
I know that all of this is Mr. Popov’s doing.
But why?
Unlike everyone else I’ve worked with, he never looks at me like I’m one mistake away from disaster. If anything, he’s…attentive. He notices problems before I even realize they exist, fixes them quietly without making me feel small.
I don’t know what to do with that. I try not to think much of it. Maybe…maybe he’s just a nice boss.
The job itself is easy enough. All I have to do is schedule emails, logistics and double-check everything like my life depends on it—the last part is just an extra but very necessary precaution on my end.
And for the first time in a long while, I don’t dread going to work.
I’ve even started writing again. Just a little. Notes, ideas, half-formed scenes on my laptop while I eat whatever snack I remembered to bring for lunch. It feels like breathing again.
Today, though, I’m running behind. Again.
I clutch my notepad and step up to Mr. Popov’s office door, inhaling once before knocking.
“Come in.”
I wonder if I’ll ever get used to the effect his voice has on me—the unexpected tremor that goes up my spine every time I hear that rich baritone.
I shake my head slightly, trying to dispel the fog in my brain, then I open the door and step inside. He’s seated behindhis desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, dark hair slightly mussed in a sexy,I-can’t-be-botheredkind of way. He raises his eyes to mine and I feel my breath cease, a familiar rush of heat pooling between my legs.
It has to be illegal for a man to look this good.
I clear my throat. “I’m here to take your lunch order, sir.”
He looks up, nods once. “Go ahead.”
I swallow and flip open my notepad, pen poised. “The bistro has their usual specials, or you can—”
I’m suddenly interrupted by a loud, long, distorted growl that seems to emit from deep inside my stomach.
I flinch, my cheeks instantly flaming.
If the ground could open up at this moment, I would gladly bury myself and erase all records of me from the surface of the earth.
Mr. Popov raises his brows at me. “When was the last time you ate?”
The heat crawls down my neck. “I—uh. This morning didn’t exactly go as planned.”
He leans back slightly in his chair. “Explain.”
“My hair dryer sparked,” I say, because apparently my mouth has no filter when I’m embarrassed. “Literally sparked. And then there was smoke, and I had to unplug everything. I might have spent a considerable amount of time uselessly trying to fix the thing. Anyway, I ended up having to run out of the house with my hair soaking through my shirt. There was no time for breakfast. Sir.”
He studies me for a moment. Then he stands.
My heart immediately starts doing a strange dance, butterflies bursting from an unexpected place in my belly.
He walks around the desk, stopping right in front of me. Close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne. Something exotic and deeply masculine.