Page 2 of Yours Temporarily

I lean back, appraising him. His ambition is clear, but he’s more suited for other roles. “The position you’re talking about is a senior management role.”

“I can oversee financial planning and analysis functions just fine.”

My brow rises. No doubt, he knows what the job title entails and can handle it. I still have to state some reasons why this position might not be a good fit for him. “Don’t forget strategic planning and significant contributions to high-level decision-making processes.”

“I can handle it.” He squares his shoulders beneath a blue button-down.

I tap the pen on my chin, considering his potential. With intense training, he can handle it. However, I need his help to keep all the other branches from slacking—it’s an upcoming opening that might suit him better, unknown to the rest of the team. But I can’t tell him yet, in case Mary Walsh changes her mind and extends her retirement for another two years or so.

“Damien, it’s past office hours.” Usually, no one other than the cleaners and me are still in the building on a Friday night. I swivel in my chair, rolling it forward as I try to soften my tone. My assistant, Jill, suggested I was rather curt with him yesterday and reminded me of my New Year’s resolution to be more approachable this year. “We have a whole year ahead for you to demonstrate your capabilities for such a role.”

He nods, his expression clouded before he replaces it with a half smile. “Of course.”

“I don’t make the final hiring decisions, you know,” I remind him, although I have significant influence in the selection process, especially for key positions.

“I usually don’t stay this late at work.” He adjusts his loose tie, clearly uncomfortable about whatever he’s about to say. “I started driving home and then had to drive back. You’re invited to a small staff get-together at my place tomorrow.”

“You’re inviting me to your house?”

My eyes bulge, probably almost comically so. Invitations like this from subordinates are a rarity.

“I know you’re a busy man.” He nods, standing, seeming to conclude what my response will be. “I knew you wouldn’t come, but my sister insisted I ask. She wants to record or practice her recipes—”

“Time and place,” I say, decisively.

Damien’s eyes now mirror my earlier reaction, clearly taken aback. I can almost see him recalibrating his expectations. I might regret attending a party with the employees he’s invited, all of whom I seldom interact with. Yet, as their boss, I can’t appear disinterested in their lives, especially when we’re promoting a healthy work-life balance after an employee passed out last year from stress, which was more family-related than work.

The silence between us stretches, almost tangible, before I nod. “All right, Blackwood.”

He clears his throat, then adjusts his already tucked-in shirt into his khakis. “I’ll…” He lifts his hand, obviously struggling to regain his composure.

My chest swells, and I tap the pen in my hand. Damien hadn’t expected me to accept his invitation, and that, in itself, is an intriguing development.

He leaves with a promise to text me the address and time, scheduled late tomorrow. Saturdays I usually reserve for work with no interruptions from the staff. Sunday afternoons are my social days for weekly rounds of golf with my friends and fellow executives. Attending this gathering will be a step outside my routine.

***

Navigating the unfamiliar outskirts of the Bay Area on a Saturday evening, I find myself in the Mission District. Its quaint streets are a reprieve from the usual hustle of the places I frequent. My Tesla runs silently and smoothly against the pavement, contrasting with the odd fluttering in my stomach. The car's navigation system cuts through the silence, announcing my arrival outside a vibrant two-story house. A warm embrace of fairy lights illuminates its bright-red door.

After parking on the street, I retrieve a brown bag with two boxes of chocolates—my contribution to the gathering. My leather shoes pad against the walkway to the steps, the bag in my hand crinkling and punctuating the quiet evening.

Beyond the front door, muffled activity, pots and pans clanging in preparation, greets me. I suck in a deep breath to steady my nerves, then straighten my collar before pressing the doorbell. Chimes. Hmm, homey, like Granny’s house.

I wait alongside potted calla lilies basking in the warm light as streetlights glow amid the neighborhood’s eclectic brick, Victorian, and Edwardian homes, each with a unique charm. However, this particular house stands out with its stone porch and stark-white shutters. If there’s a party, though, there’s not a single car in the driveway or on the street. I pull out my phone to check if I’m at the right house, then wince when my eyes glaze over the phone screen. I’m an hour early. Snap!

Each time I look at the phone to check one thing, something else always snags my attention. Right now, it’s my brother’s text. I can’t ignore it, and I feel my face split in half as I read the capitalized text.

Gavin: FIANCÉE? I KNOW IT’S FAR FROM THE TRUTH. CALL ASAP.

I stagger when a door jerks violently and slams my forehead. An “ouch!” escapes as the phone slips from my grasp. A woman scoops it up and rushes over with a stream of apologies.

“I’m so sorry.” Her vibrant energy belies the situation. Handing back my device, she takes the bag of chocolates from my other hand. “This door is sticky.”

Slightly dazed, I rub my forehead. A door slam shouldn’t be this painful.

Her eyes, lively and warm, shine in the porch light. Her skin is a flawless shade of brown, with dark curls framing her oval face and dangling just above her shoulders. In an orange long-sleeve dress with a vivid print, she gives a sunny vibe. She’s shorter than the average woman, yet every inch of her is a presence that can’t be ignored.

“This cheap door.” She winces. “Damien has been meaning to fix it, but well… Come in. Let’s get some ice on that forehead.”

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