Page 22 of Bossh*le Daddy
Be at the office at 6:30 sharp tomorrow. Earlier than usual. I promise it will be worth your while.
I read it three times, searching for hidden meaning in those clinical words. Worth my while how? My fingers trembled as I typed and deleted a dozen responses, each one sounding either too eager or too casual.
Then another message appeared:
Wear your ribbon.
My breath caught. He'd noticed. Of course he'd noticed—Damian Stone noticed everything. The gold ribbon from Saturday night lay folded on my nightstand beside the pacifier, another piece of evidence of what we'd done, what we'd become.
A third buzz:
And don't pout. I can feel you pouting already.
A startled laugh escaped me, and I pressed my fingers to my lips. How did he know? How could he read me so easily from across the city? I ran my thumb over the screen, then over the soft ribbon, the silk cool against my overheated skin.
Monday morning arrived wrapped in pre-dawn anxiety. I'd barely slept, too aware of every hour crawling past, too conscious of what awaited me. By 5:30, I gave up pretending and started getting ready with the kind of meticulous care usually reserved for job interviews or first dates.
The ribbon slid through my hair like a whisper, gold against dark strands. I pinned it carefully, remembering how he'd tucked that loose curl behind my ear on the balcony. My handsshook as I applied mascara, and I had to redo my lipstick twice when I kept pressing my lips together nervously.
Professional clothes felt strange after a weekend in soft sweaters, but I chose carefully—a pencil skirt that hit just above the knee, a blouse that was modest but fitted, the kind of outfit that said competent assistant while the ribbon whispered something else entirely.
The office building loomed in the early morning light, all glass and steel and possibility. The security guard barely glanced up as I swiped my badge, too used to my early arrivals to question why I was here an hour before my usual time. The executive elevator carried me up in that familiar climb that made my ears pop and my pulse race.
The sixtieth floor was tomb-quiet, that particular stillness that only came before the business day began its assault. My heels clicked against marble as I approached his office, each step feeling momentous. The door stood slightly ajar, spilling a blade of light across the hallway.
He was already there, of course. Standing at the window with his back to the door, one hand holding a mug of coffee, the other tucked in his pocket. The morning light painted him in shades of gold and shadow, and for a moment I just stood in the doorway, drinking in the sight of him.
"Good. You're on time."
He hadn't turned, but of course he knew I was here. This was his domain, and nothing happened here without his awareness.
I stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind me with that soft finality I'd come to associate with moments that changed everything. "Good morning, Mr. Stone."
Now he turned, those gray eyes sweeping over me in one comprehensive assessment. Starting at my carefully styled hair—noting the ribbon, I could tell by the slight narrowing of his gaze—down to my flushed cheeks, the blouse I'd buttoned withtrembling fingers, the way my hands twisted in my skirt despite my best efforts to appear calm.
"Sit." The command was soft but absolute, accompanied by a gesture toward one of the leather chairs facing his desk. "We have a few . . . adjustments to discuss."
I moved on unsteady legs, hyperaware of his gaze tracking my movement. The leather was cool through my skirt as I perched on the edge, spine straight, hands folded in my lap in what I hoped looked like professional attention rather than barely controlled panic.
He didn't move to his desk. Instead, he leaned back against it, arms crossing over his chest, studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. The silence stretched between us, weighted with everything that had happened Saturday night, everything we'd done and said and become.
Then his lips curved in that way that wasn't quite a smile—something sharper, more dangerous, infinitely more affecting. "And yes," he said, as if continuing a conversation we'd already started, "I still need you to play my doting fiancée a little longer."
The words hit me with a complicated mix of relief and disappointment. Of course. The arrangement. The performance. That's what this was about. Not the feeding, not the pacifier, not the way he'd called me his good girl while I fell apart in his arms. Just business. Just—
"The Hartley acquisition dinner is in two weeks," he continued, but his eyes hadn't left my face, cataloguing every micro-expression that crossed it. "Japanese investors. Very traditional. They'll expect to meet my fiancée." A pause, weighted. "They'll expect to see a proper couple."
"Of course," I managed, proud when my voice came out steady. "I understand."
"Do you?" He pushed off from the desk, moving closer with that predator's grace that made my breath catch. "Because thistime, little one, I'll need more than just smiles and hand-holding."
He stopped just outside of touching distance, but I could feel the heat of him, smell that cologne that had haunted my weekend. This close, I could see he looked tired too, shadows under those gray eyes that suggested his weekend hadn't been any more restful than mine.
"More?" The word came out breathier than intended.
His smile sharpened. "We'll need to be convincing. Comfortable with each other. Like a real couple who can't keep their hands off each other." His voice dropped to that register that made my insides liquid. "Think you can manage that?"
I thought about Saturday night—his hands in my hair, his mouth claiming mine, the way I'd called him Daddy and meant it with every cell in my body. Yeah, I could manage convincing. The problem would be remembering it was just an act.
