LATER THAT NIGHT, IT TAKES me ages to fall asleep. Despite clearing the air with Max and being on better terms with him, I keep replaying our last conversation. Apparently, torturing myself is a new pastime.
Max's words whisper into my ear, surrounding me like a thick, heady haze.
From where I'm sitting, I'm pretty sure you're good at everything, Sunshine.
It's so easy to imagine that he's beside me—behind me—now, pressed up against me. I can't seem to stop thinking about him, no matter how hard I try. Lying in bed, his face—rough with short stubble and shadowed in weariness—flashes through my mind. Seeing him cry, helping him through his catharsis, should've been a turn-off, but it's had the opposite effect.
It's increased his attraction tenfold.
Lauren, of course, was quick to launch into one of her favourite debate topics—gender perceptions and harmful stereotypes—after I told her everything that'd happened today over dinner. According to her, most women prefer a man who's comfortable showing emotion. Maybe that's why I found it so hard to be around Max before, because, until very recently, all he did was hide what he was feeling behind a mask of indifference—cold, impenetrable granite. And I was always on the defensive, never fully knowing where I stood or how he felt. The fact that he let his guard down tonight, that he let me—of all people—in, filled me with an astonishing amount of warmth.
And I've been burning ever since.
All night, I've tried to distract myself and focus on other things. The new chiffon dress I ordered weeks ago that finally arrived and fits like a glove. The cheesy episodes of the latest K-drama I just binge-watched. It manages to hold my attention for a little while . . . and then I'm back to thinking very, very inappropriate thoughts about my boss for the umpteenth time.
I toss and turn until I've cocooned myself in the blankets. Even though my eyes are closed, my thoughts run wild. I'm acutely aware that all I want, the only images playing behind my eyes, are of his big hand, splayed on my belly, then dragging down to explore every inch of my body. Except, unlike that night on my couch, he has no intention of stopping until he's inside me, and I have no plans of asking him to leave.
When his warm fingers toy with the elastic band of my pyjama shorts and slide between my legs, desire sinks into me, kneading my skin. I picture his deft fingers swiping over my clit, applying the perfect amount of pressure, and him saying, "Such a good girl. You're already wet for me."
Drifting deeper into the fantasy, I'm tempted to touch myself, to really run with this, but before I can, Max's hand stills, and he switches his focus. He whispers more things in my ear, sweet and unexpected things, like how badly he needs me, and not just at Elevated. He tells me he can't imagine life without me, that he doesn't want to lose me—ever.
Instead of squirming away, I melt. I push closer. I want him to make good on his promises.
Pressing my face into my pillow, I exhale a shaky, surprised breath. Blinking back into awareness, I stare up at the shadowy ceiling and attempt to decipher the sea of emotions that are swirling through me.
I'm a sucker for dirty talk, but never mushy, sentimental things like that. That's never been part of my fantasy . . . until now.
Whether I'm actively working for Max Griffin or not, whether he's in my life or just a part of my past, it's so damn obvious that there's no universe now, parallel or otherwise, where I hate him. Where I can't stand him. Where it's easy to forget he exists.
It's like I've done a complete one-eighty, and I'm living off every interaction we have.
Living for the next time I'll see him.
I should probably feel more embarrassed than I do, but it's taken twenty-six years to feel this way—to find someone who makes me feel the things I've annotated in books or seen in romance movies—and honestly, I'm just so fucking relieved.
I've seen everyone around me experience this kind of infatuation. Even my parents, who've been married for thirty years, still act like loved-up teenagers whenever I visit them.
Hell, most nights, I'm forced to watch Zac and Jacob eye-fuck each other across the table.
Everyone in my life, bar Lauren, seems to have someone already, so I've always wondered: why is it taking so long to find my person?
For a while, I thought there was a chance I was just wired wrong. Or, on my lowest days, that I'd be condemned to wait another twenty-six years, hopeful I might—key word: might—just bump into them.
Is Max my person?
The jury is still out.
I just know I want him. More than ever. And not because he's off-limits, or because he's ten years older than me (and I've always had a thing for older men), or because he could pay off my HELP debt in one fell swoop. And definitely not because he's a widower (gosh, my heart breaks for him).
No.
It's deeper than that.
I want the man underneath it all.
The man I've glimpsed a handful of times.
The man who drops all pretences when we're alone, shifting from grumpy to smiley in record time. The man who had the maturity to thank me after I was the biggest bitch ever instead of handing me my ass (which, in hindsight, I totally deserved). The man who then promoted me to one of the highest-up positions in his billion-dollar company.
The man who's making me feel things I never thought I would.
Just the idea of seeing him tomorrow makes me giddy, and it's nice, to finally understand. To not have to excuse myself at the dinner table because I've suddenly lost my appetite—my knee-jerk reaction when it comes to Zac and Jacob's stomach-churning level of PDA. To not roll my eyes at Lauren while she proceeds to talk my ear off about Patrick Bishop's latest interview or thirst trap on Instagram. In her defence, she has a mutual connection to him now (and yes, I think she stopped breathing for half a minute).
Being a little obsessed with my boss is a small price to pay, because not only do I feel closer to him after what happened in his office tonight, I feel closer to myself—something I'd almost given up on—and I'm not taking it for granted.
When I arrive at work the next morning, that feeling doesn't go away. In fact, it intensifies. Because when I walk into my little storage cupboard—windowless with one flickering overhead fluorescent light—I see it. The biggest, most beautiful bunch of flowers, waiting on my desk.
Sunflowers.
My favourite.
Arching an eyebrow, I approach them warily and place my bag down on my ergonomic chair. It's like I'm afraid they'll wilt and die, or just disappear entirely, if I make any sudden movements.
It's probably nothing, that voice is back. Zac and Lauren just wanted to do something nice.
It isn't until I'm opening the small envelope that I realise I'm holding my breath, that my hands are shaking a little. I recognise Max's slanted, neat handwriting immediately, and my chest clenches.
He didn't.
Comprehension dawns, but I'm still in denial.
As a millennial who's dated in the twenty-first century, my expectations are lower than my savings account.
In other words, abysmally low.
It's not a short, half-assed message, either.
He could've just written 'I think you're great' or 'Let's fuck' and I'd have been moved by the gesture. Truly, it wouldn't have taken much.
Disbelief still surging through me, I have to read his multiple sentences a few times and wait for my brain to restart. Everything about this has short-circuited my system. Not only did I not sleep well last night, but it's nine o'clock in the morning—far too early for something this transformative—and I've only had one coffee.
What I should've done yesterday, Sunshine. Maybe even six months ago. Better late than never.
Friends can also send each other flowers, right?
Faithfully,
Mr. Grouchy.
P.S. Hope these brighten your day like you brighten mine.
The prickling sensation is back with a vengeance, and I'm pretty sure tears are leaking out of my eyes. The only other time Max has made me cry was for a different reason.
A very bad reason.
The memory of me sobbing—and I do mean bawling uncontrollably—in the women's bathroom resurfaces, but I push it down, not wanting to lose sight of what he's done for me, the ways he's made it up to me, since then.
"What the?" I say out loud, tucking the piece of embossed paper back into the envelope and wiping at my damp cheeks.
For a man who used to make my (work) life literal hell and single-handedly ruined my twenty-sixth birthday, he's slowly redeeming himself. A bunch of sunflowers this gigantic probably cost him a small fortune. But it's what he wrote—his words—that has a lump forming in my throat.
Thankfully, he signed off as Mr. Grouchy and not his real name. There's a high chance a co-worker will snoop at the card later and try to figure out who the flowers are from.
I take a deep breath in an effort to recentre myself, settling behind my desk and booting up my computer. When I realise I'm not going to be able to concentrate or tackle today's to-do list until I've at least paid Max a visit, I push myself up from my chair and make my way down the carpeted hall.
Knocking my knuckles against his door, I step back and wait. My hands fidget awkwardly at my sides. When no one answers, I stray from my usual reaction—I'd never just walk into Max's office without his say-so—and my hand reaches out without my brain explicitly telling it to. Gripping the big handle, I push the door open.
It was only last night I was in this room, consoling him, and yet it feels like eons ago. Everything's changing between us, faster than I can deal with at times, but I think I'm finally beginning to catch up. Slowly accepting this new reality—a world where the two of us have embraced this unspoken truce.
Max is at his desk, and I'm not going to lie, when I notice the brunette standing next to him—a little too close for my liking—leaning over his muscular frame, it feels like something heavy is suddenly sitting on my chest. I can't help but let out a sharp, weird puff of air.
He's in the middle of showing her something on his slimline monitor, but when he hears me enter—my strangled exhale was definitely audible—he looks up from the screen. His lips press together. If I didn't know him better, I'd think he was annoyed by the interruption, but I catch the faint curve of his mouth. The smile he's trying so hard to contain.
"Morning, Summer. This is Elle," he informs me. His voice is a low rasp, and he sounds more tired than usual. Maybe he isn't sleeping well, either. "My new PA."
My gaze zips to the woman beside him again, who looks to be about my age, and my fingers tighten on the door handle reflexively.
God, she's so gorgeous, it almost hurts to look at her. Surely, Max can appreciate that his new assistant is a freaking smokeshow. I wish it didn't bother me, that I could say my self-confidence never wavers, but now that I've realised just how strong my feelings are, I guess this is part of the package. Feeling insecure sometimes. Even a little green-eyed. Elle gets to shadow the man I work for, after all. The man I fantasise about. My reaction is perfectly normal.
It doesn't help that she looks like the female lead in the K-drama I started watching last night. I catalogue every detail about her, barely overcoming the urge to pout or stamp my heeled foot. Dark, silky hair that tumbles over her slender shoulders. Porcelain, flawless skin I've never been able to achieve, even after purchasing my weight in high-end skincare at MECCA. Tall, lithe frame, and the softest, pink-stained lips I've ever seen.
I think I'm even tempted to kiss them.
So I really couldn't blame Max if he'd entertained the idea, too.
Ugh.
Of course his new PA is achingly beautiful. She couldn't just be a long-time friend of Barb's who came with a glowing recommendation and years of experience. Better yet, someone who was happily married with grandchildren or, at the very least, had a legion of well-loved cats at home.
"Elle, meet Summer," he says simply, oblivious to the whirlwind of thoughts that are flying around in my head at warp speed.
"It's so lovely to meet you, Summer," Elle greets. Her smile is polite and totally sincere. Then she surprises me by adding, "I've heard such great things about you. I've got big shoes to fill, according to Max."
I swallow, forcing my expression to remain neutral.
Shit.
She's nice, too.
I have an eerily accurate radar when it comes to first impressions and reading people—whether they're worth befriending or not. Intuitively, something tells me Elle is.
The fact that she's calling him Max and it's her first day doesn't escape my notice, either, but it's not quite enough to rattle me.
Maybe because Max hasn't glanced up at her once—almost like he's tuned her out. For the entire conversation, his attention has been laser-focused on me. More specifically, the sheer blouse I'm wearing. He's staring at it so intently, I'm actually a little afraid he might burn a hole through the expensive material. It's the most risqué top I've ever worn to work. Still appropriate, but it's borderline. If I hadn't worn a lacy camisole underneath, everyone at Elevated would be copping an eyeful of cleavage and my favourite push-up bra.
"I, um, just wanted to say thank you." I manage to get the words out, but my voice sounds hoarse as hell. Maybe I should feel self-conscious right now because Elle is here, and I can't say everything I want to, but I don't. I'm too busy holding Max's gaze, talking directly to him. For a split second, I forget she's standing there, too. "I got your . . . message."
"What did you think?" he asks immediately, and I swear, those stormy-grey eyes darken.
The space between us feels non-existent. The room so very tiny, and I'm suddenly looking forward to returning to my spacious storage cupboard.
"It was incredibly thoughtful, Mr. Griffin. I think, uh, the client will be very pleased," I reply, my cheeks heating at the knowledge that I've literally resorted to speaking in code. I'm not sure what I'm experiencing more—shame or delight. "Anyway, I'll let you both get back to work."
Before either of them can say anything, I close the wooden door.
Everything about our exchange was professional, and yet, my whole body vibrates with tension and unfulfilled desire as I walk back to my office. I'm seriously questioning how I'm supposed to work in the same building as this man and not offer my body—and maybe, just maybe, my heart—to him on a daily basis.
He begged me to stay, gave me a toe-curling orgasm, bought me sunflowers, and wrote that I fucking brighten his day.
He's like a modern-day Fitzwilliam Darcy.
And, as we've previously established, my self-control can only tolerate so much. I know, eventually, it's bound to break.