Page 20 of Babies for the Big Shot
It’s been two whole weeks. Ten long, caffeine-fueled, nerve-mangling days of pretending I’m totally fine every time he walks by, opens his mouth, or exists in a suit that honestly shouldn’t be allowed in an office setting.
I’m running on cold brew, vending machine regret, and pure, uncut denial. The plan is simple: be professional, do the job, keep my eyes on my screen, and absolutely do not bend over anywhere in his line of sight. In that direction lies chaos and possibly an HR seminar with slides.
That plan?
Hasn’t been going well…
And today might be the worst day of all.
First, there’s the brainstorm meeting.
We’re crammed around a whiteboard in one of those tiny feeling meeting rooms that turns everything into a silent performance review. Nick walks in and takes the seat right next to mine, and suddenly I’m aware of every breath, every inch of my posture, every awkward part of just… existing.
He doesn’t even glance over, but he doesn’t need to. I can smell his cologne, and it hits hard, which is absolutely not helpful to my current plan of pretending I’m totally fine.
I pitch an idea for the fall campaign. It gets nods. Nick doesn’t speak, but I catch the faintest flicker of approval.
Which is somehow worse than outright praise.
Then we’re back at our desks and the printer goes full demon-mode.
I’m standing there, wrestling with the stupid jammed printer using one hand and trying not to drop my laptop with the other. Then a hand appears next to mine—his—and of course the machine decides to behave. Starts printing as if it’s never caused a single problem in its life.
Our hands brush.
Just a second. Just skin on skin.
Whatever thoughts I had left? Gone. He just hands me the paper and walks off, completely unfazed, while I stand there trying to remember how basic motor function works.
I fan my face with the paper and say, “Dammit, Sara,” under my breath for the fifteenth time today.
Then comes the team lunch.
It’s casual. Mostly. A mix of junior and senior marketing folks, gathered around a long conference table littered with takeout boxes and half-empty LaCroix cans. I try to blendin. Keep the conversation light. Make a joke about the brand campaign being so bland it might as well be beige-flavored.
Nick, who is seated directly across from me because apparently the universe enjoys playing chicken with my willpower, actually laughs.
Not a fake, CEO chuckle. A real, surprised huff of amusement that makes me forget how forks work.
He looks at me, really looks. Not as the girl from the elevator, not as some mistake. His eyes catch on mine and stay there, steady. There’s amusement in them, interest. Something warmer, softer. He’s charmed. And I feel it everywhere.
Which is completely unfair because he’s the one who’s all tall and broody and devastating in a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Meanwhile, I’m over here barely holding it together with a Tide pen and a prayer.
I leave lunch ten minutes early and hide in the bathroom.
And by hide, I mean lean against the sink, close my eyes, and have a brief but spirited conversation with my reflection.
“You are fine,” I hiss. “You are a professional. You are not going to melt just because your boss has cheekbones carved by the gods and smells like sin and spreadsheets. You are better than this. You are?—”
The door creaks open.
I go quiet. Slip into a stall. Wait for whoever it is to leave while I plot my slow descent into insanity.
Because here’s the truth: I like this job.
I like the team. I like the work. I’m good at it.
But if Nick keeps looking at me in that way…
