Page 15 of Babies for the Big Shot
I yank my hair into the world’s most aggressive bun, throw on the least wrinkled outfit I own—a slightly questionable blouse, miracle skirt, and the only pair of tights without a run—and stare at myself in Laura’s bathroom mirror, bracing for a verdict I haven’t prepared for.
“You’ve got this,” I mutter to myself. “You are calm. You are professional. You are?—”
“Extremely late,” Laura calls from the kitchen. “The subway’s on fire again or something. Better run unless you want to show up looking like a frazzled intern with unresolved sexual tension.”
I flip her off on the way out the door, trip over Meatball, who farts in protest and waddles back to his blanket, clearly offended by my hustle.
Thirty-seven minutes later, I walk into Ashford Holdings.
Technically, I sprint in, sweating lightly, already regretting my outfit and praying no one notices the coffee stain that bloomed on my sleeve during the subway-sprint ride-sprint combo. But whatever. I made it.
I march through the doors, head high, channeling CEO energy, which is hilarious because I’m basically three steps above “sad temp” on the corporate ladder. Still. Fake it till you make it.
The lobby is massive. Sleek. Intimidating in a we’ll-crush-your-dreams-and-your-soul kind of way. A water feature gurgles in the corner, unsettlingly cheerful. The front desk receptionist doesn’t look up when I give her my name, just hands me a security badge and a too-bright smile that somehow manages to judge my shoes without saying a word.
An elevator dings.
I freeze.
No. Not again.
Not this time.
I eye the elevator doors with deep suspicion. It’s not the same one; we’re in a different building entirely, but my body still tenses. I swear there’s a moan somewhere in the distance, echoing with the weight of bad decisions.
“Get it together,” I mutter, stepping inside.
And this time?
No billionaire.
No button malfunctions.
No spontaneous stripping.
Just thirty-two floors of me quietly freaking out while a man next to me coughs into his elbow and someone else plays Candy Crush on full volume.
When the doors open, I follow the signs to the marketing department with what I hope is a calm, collected walk andnota panicked speed waddle.
The office is open concept, sleek desks, trendy lighting, and employees who probably eat kale on purpose. Everyone’s busy typing, talking, existing without scandal. I glance around for my new desk, zeroing in on the lonely cubicle in the corner next to a plant that’s lost the will to live.
Then I hear it.
His voice.
Deep. Calm. Smooth enough to butter toast with.
Nick.
I freeze.
He’s standing near the wall of the conference room, sleeves rolled up, talking to a team of people as if he’s not the main attraction in every one of my most questionable daydreams. He looks infuriatingly perfect, jaw sharp, tie loose, hair slightly tousled—the kind of tousled that happens after running a hand through it post-firing or post-sex.
Possibly both.
His eyes flick up and catch mine.
Boom.
