Page 11 of Bossh*le Daddy
He'd already turned back to his computer by the time I closed the door, but I carried the warmth of his hand on my shoulder all the way home.
Chapter 3
Thecoffeemakeronfifty-eight hissed its morning greeting at 5:47 a.m. My hands shook as I positioned the temperature gun, watching the numbers climb toward that magic 140 degrees while my mind replayed last night on an endless, torturous loop.
You belong to me.
The words had carved themselves into my bones, settling in spaces I didn't know existed. All night, I'd tossed in my narrow bed, clutching my rabbit while those gray eyes haunted me. The way he'd hidden her from Marcus-Martin. The brush of his fingers against mine. The weight of his hand on my shoulder, keeping me safe and small and his.
The coffee reached temperature, and I poured it with the mechanical precision I'd developed over two weeks of survival. Six inches from the right edge of his desk. Handle at forty-five degrees. The Wall Street Journal folded to the business section. Everything perfect, everything exactly as he expected, while inside I was chaos.
I couldn't meet his eyes when he arrived at six.
The elevator chimed its announcement, and I busied myself with already-organized files. His footsteps on the plush carpet, that particular rhythm I'd learned to recognize, made my pulse skip.
"Good morning, Mr. Stone." The words came out steady, professional, while every cell in my body went haywire at his proximity.
He paused at my desk. I felt it in the air, that moment of stillness where he usually swept past without acknowledgment. My fingers tightened on the invoice, crinkling the corner.
"Morning."
Just that. One word, delivered in that low voice that had called me little one in the dark. No mention of what had happened between us last night. Then he was moving again, his office door closing with its familiar click, and I could breathe.
Except I couldn't. Not really. Because now I was hyperaware of everything. The way his shadow moved past the frosted glass when he paced during calls. The precise moments he preferred his second coffee (10:15) and his third (2:30). The tone of his voice carrying through the door—sharp with Tokyo, dismissive with Henderson, coldly professional with everyone.
But not with me. Not last night.
I forced myself to focus on the Singapore contracts, highlighting relevant sections with color-coded tabs the way he preferred. But my traitorous mind kept drifting.
"Pathetic," I whispered to myself, organizing the contracts for the third unnecessary time. He was Damian Stone. Billionaire. Corporate destroyer. A man who collected companies and discarded assistants with equal efficiency. And I was just . . . me. Drowning in debt, clinging to childhood comforts, playing dress-up in a world where I'd never belong.
The morning crawled by in a haze of careful avoidance. When he emerged for the ten o'clock board call, I found fascinating things to study on my computer screen. When he returned, I was suddenly deeply absorbed in filing. We performed an elaborate dance of proximity without contact, and I told myself I was relieved.
Then, at 3:47 p.m., his voice cracked through the intercom like a whip.
"My office. Now."
The words sent ice through my veins. That tone—sharp, immediate, brooking no delay—usually preceded someone's career execution. My mind raced through the day's possible failures. Had I missed something in the Singapore contracts? Forgotten a call? Made another catastrophic error that would end with public humiliation?
My legs felt like water as I stood, smoothing my skirt with trembling hands. The walk to his door stretched endless, each step heavier than the last.
I knocked—two quick raps that sounded like a funeral drum.
"Enter."
He stood by the windows, hands clasped behind his back, studying the city below like a general surveying territory. The afternoon light caught his profile, all sharp angles and controlled power, and despite my terror, that traitorous flutter started in my stomach.
"Sir?" My voice came out smaller than intended, barely disturbing the arctic air.
He didn't turn. For long seconds, we existed in that strange suspended space—him commanding the view, me hovering by the door like prey that hadn't decided whether to freeze or flee. Then he glanced at his watch, a gesture so casual it took me a moment to realize he'd spoken.
"You're going to the Albrecht Gala with me Saturday night."
The words hit like a physical blow. I must have misheard. Must have constructed some elaborate auditory hallucination from stress and sleeplessness and too much wanting things I couldn't have.
"Sir?" The word escaped again, stupider this time, while my brain tried to process the impossible.
Now he turned, those gray eyes cutting to mine with laser precision. "Don't make me repeat myself."
