Norah Quinn did not mean to send the message, though part of her hoped Julian Cross would read it.
She never drank. Her idea of a perfect Friday involved flannel pajamas, chamomile tea, and a book no one besides her would willingly read. But that night, she had apparently become someone else. Someone who had lost count of how many times she had accepted just 1 more drink from Mara. Someone who had started to think the bar floor was slightly tilted, which was anatomically impossible but sensorily very real.
It was his fault.
The man’s name was Julian Cross, and as it happened, he was also her boss. In 8 months of work, he had never said her name out loud. He had never looked directly at her for more than 3 seconds. He had never shown any awareness that she existed beyond being the person who organized his schedule and brought coffee.
Until that afternoon.
During the board meeting, Julian had stopped, held up Norah’s quarterly report, and said in that deep voice that always made her stomach flip, “Exceptional work, Norah Quinn. Exactly the level of excellence I expect.”
He had said her name. Her full name. In front of everyone.
Mara, Norah’s best friend and worst influence, had decided this deserved celebration. That decision had brought them to the Blue Moon, a corporate bar full of finance people pretending to be more interesting than they actually were.
“Norah!” Mara shouted beside her, far too close to her ear. “You’re glowing.”
“I’m sweating,” Norah corrected, adjusting the glasses that kept sliding down her nose.
“It’s different. It’s the glow. The glow of someone who was finally noticed by the hottest man in Manhattan.”
Mara practically purred the word hottest, and Norah sank lower into her chair, looking around to make sure no one had heard. Of course, Leo, the office gossip intern, was exactly 10 feet away and gave her a knowing smile.
Great. Perfect.
“He didn’t notice me,” Norah said, though her voice sounded strange, slightly slurred. “He noticed the report. It’s different.”
“Honey, he could have said good job and been done. But no. He said your name with that voice. That voice that sounds like sex in the form of—”
“Mara.”
Mara laughed and pushed another drink toward her. It was the 5th or the 7th. Norah had lost count after she started thinking Julian Cross was a reasonable conversation topic, because he was, in fact, criminally handsome. It should have been illegal for a man to have that jawline, those storm-gray eyes, and that way of walking that made it seem as though he owned not just the company but the oxygen around him.
“He looks gorgeous in a suit,” Norah said out loud.
Mara almost spat out her drink.
“Finally, you admitted it.”
“Like, inappropriately gorgeous,” Norah continued, because apparently she had completely lost the filter between her brain and her mouth. “Why do men like that exist? It’s unfair. It’s cruel. It’s—”
The world spun. Just a little. Maybe more than a little.
At 11:52 p.m., Norah decided she needed to text Mara and tell her that maybe, possibly, she should go home. Her fingers felt strange, disconnected from the rest of her body, but she managed to grab her phone. She opened her contacts. She meant to click M for Mara.
Instead, with the motor coordination of a 3-year-old, she clicked J.
J for Julian Cross.
Then her fingers, traitorous and independent, started typing.
“Come get me.”
Send.
“I’m drunk.”
Send.
“Everything’s spinning.”
Send.
Panic cut through the alcohol haze like a knife.
No. No.
Norah stared at the screen, at the messages that had definitely gone to the wrong person, and her heart simply stopped.
Then her fingers continued.
“BTW, you look gorgeous in a suit.”
No, no, no, no.
“Like really gorgeous.”
Her fingers were possessed.
“Inappropriately gorgeous.”
Send.
All of it sent to Julian Cross. Her boss. The CEO of Cross Global. The man who probably did not even know her number existed in his phone.
“Mara.”
Her scream came out high-pitched and desperate.
“I did a very bad thing.”
She tried to delete the messages, but her hands were shaking, and she only managed to send more.
“Ignore that wrong person.”
“Unless—”
“No, stop.”
“No. Ignore.”
She misspelled please so badly it became something else entirely.
She was going to get fired. She was going to get fired and sued. She would have to move to another country, change her name, and never look at a suit again for the rest of her life.
At 11:56 p.m., the phone vibrated in her hand.
A message from him.
Julian Cross.
“Where are you?”
Norah’s heart was no longer beating. She was sure of it. It had stopped, and she had died. This was her life now: dead from embarrassment in a corporate bar at 11:56 p.m. on a Friday.
“He answered,” she whispered to Mara, showing her the screen.
Mara yanked the phone from her hand, read it, and her eyes grew the size of saucers.
“Norah. Norah Quinn. Julian Cross is—”
The phone rang.
It rang for real, vibrating and ringing, Julian Cross flashing on the screen.
Norah answered without even realizing she had done it. It was the worst decision of her life, but her hand had already brought the phone to her ear.
“Hello.”
Her voice came out small and scared.
“Norah.”
His voice was deep and hoarse, with a quality she had never heard in it before. Concern, maybe. Or contained fury. Or both.
“Where are you?”
Each word was precise, controlled, and her entire body reacted to the commanding tone.
“Blue,” she tried to say. “Something bar. The blue one. Blue Moon. Mara knows where it is.”
“Stay there.”
It was not a request. It was an order.
“Don’t leave. I’m coming to get you.”
“You don’t need to.”
“10 minutes.”
He hung up.
Norah looked at Mara, and Mara looked back. The silence lasted exactly 3 seconds before Mara exploded.
“Julian Cross just said he’s coming to get you.”
“I’m going to get fired,” Norah repeated, because it was the only thing her brain could process. “I’m going to get fired and sued.”
“And you’re going to get kissed.”
“Mara. This isn’t—”
Norah did not finish the sentence because Leo appeared with his phone in hand, smiling in a way that told her life was officially over.
“So,” he said, dragging over a chair. “Did you guys see who just left an important business dinner to come to the Blue Moon?”
Norah buried her face in her hands.
Julian Cross entered the bar like an elegant hurricane. He was still in the suit he had worn during the day, but the jacket was open, the tie slightly loosened, and his normally perfect hair had a few strands falling over his forehead. His gray eyes swept the room with surgical precision until they found exactly what they were looking for.
Norah sat in the corner, crooked glasses, hair escaping from her bun, cheeks hot with embarrassment and alcohol.
He crossed the bar, and everyone stopped what they were doing to look, because it was impossible not to look. Julian Cross demanded attention simply by existing.
When he stopped in front of her, Norah had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. Even sitting, even drunk, she felt his intensity like a physical wave.
“Hi,” she said.
It was possibly the most pathetic thing that had ever come out of her mouth.
“Hi,” he replied.
The corner of his mouth moved. Almost a smile. Almost.
“You came.”
“You asked.”
He said it as if it were obvious, as if billionaire CEOs regularly dropped everything to rescue drunk assistants from bars at midnight.
“I didn’t mean to. I wanted—”
A sob escaped her. Perfect. She could add sobbing to the list of humiliations.
“Mara. I was texting Mara.”
His mouth moved again. Definitely a smile now. Small, but real.
“You tell Mara she looks gorgeous in a suit?”
Norah wanted to die. She wanted the floor to open and swallow her whole. She covered her face with her hands.
“Oh my God, Mr. Cross.”
Mara appeared out of nowhere, far too animated for someone who should have been helping with the crisis.
“Wow. Hi. You’re real. And here for Norah.”
He did not even look at Mara. His eyes stayed fixed on Norah.
“Can you walk?”
Norah considered the question seriously.
“My feet exist. Theoretically. Probably.”
She tried to stand to prove her point. Her knees immediately disagreed, and she stumbled.
Firm hands caught her by the waist, stabilizing her, warming through the thin fabric of her blouse.
“That’s a no,” Julian said.
Then he simply picked her up, 1 arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her as if she weighed nothing.
“I can walk,” she protested, even as her arms automatically wrapped around his neck.
“Not in those heels, you can’t.”
He looked at the ridiculously high shoes Mara had convinced her to wear.
“They’re—look, okay, they’re ridiculous. Mara picked them.”
He carried her out of the bar. People stared. Some took pictures. Leo definitely took a picture. Norah hid her face in Julian’s chest and felt the soft fabric of his suit, his scent, something expensive and masculine that made her head spin more than the alcohol.
The car was black, gleaming, and unmistakably expensive. The driver opened the back door, eyes widening when he saw his boss’s extra cargo. Julian placed Norah gently on the seat, got in beside her, and the car moved in silence.
“Your car smells expensive,” Norah said, because apparently she could not remain quiet.
“Smells?” There was amusement in his voice.
“Like leather and power.”
“Power has a smell?”
“It does. You.”
She closed her eyes, feeling the smooth movement of the car.
“You’re intimidating, but also safe. Is that weird?”
“It’s not weird.”
His voice was softer now. Closer.
“Good. Because I feel safe with you. Even though you’re my boss and this is probably HR violation number 4,000.”
“We’ll worry about HR on Monday.”
“Monday.”
A yawn caught her.
“So far away.”
Her head found something solid and warm. His shoulder. She should have pulled away, but she did not. He did not push her away either.
She felt fingers touching her hair very lightly before sleep pulled her completely under. The last thing she heard was a masculine voice, not Julian’s, saying quietly, “You’re screwed, man.”
Julian’s response was almost inaudible.
“I know.”
Norah woke in her apartment, in her bed, with her shoes removed and a blanket over her. Julian stood beside the bed, placing water and aspirin on the nightstand. In the darkness of the room, he seemed even bigger, even more imposing.
“You’re kind,” she murmured, half asleep.
“I’m not.”
He said it with conviction.
“You are. You came.”
“You asked.”
Norah forced her eyes open a little more.
“Would you come if anyone asked?”
He stopped and looked at her. For a long, tense moment, charged with something she could not name, silence pulsed between them.
“No,” he finally answered, voice low, almost dangerous.
Norah smiled, or tried to, before sinking back into the pillow.
She heard his footsteps moving away, the door closing softly, the lock being set from outside, and then muffled voices in the hallway.
“So, that happened.”
“Not a word, Owen.”
“Oh, I’m telling everyone.”
Norah closed her eyes and let sleep take her, knowing Monday would be impossible. She would have to face Julian Cross, and he would know exactly what she thought about how he looked in a suit.
The headache was not just a headache. It was divine punishment. Karma in physical form. The universe reminding her that bad decisions had consequences, and she had made approximately 7 bad decisions the night before, all served in glasses with ice and decorative umbrellas.
She did not remember the umbrellas, but Mara had taken pictures. The evidence existed and would haunt her forever.
Norah opened her eyes slowly, very slowly, because morning light was a personal attack. Her bedroom ceiling was exactly where it should be. Except it should not be, because the last thing she remembered was being in a car that smelled like power and leather.
Then the memories returned in violent flashes, and she groaned loudly, pulling the pillow over her face as if that could erase reality.
“Come get me.”
No.
“You look gorgeous in a suit.”
No, no, no.
“Inappropriately gorgeous.”
Please let this be a nightmare. Please let her still be sleeping.
Julian had shown up. Julian had carried her in his arms, bridal style. She had said he smelled like power.
Norah screamed into the pillow, a muffled, high-pitched sound of pure mortification.
Then she saw the nightstand and the items that definitely had not been there the day before: water in a glass she recognized as hers, though she had certainly not filled it; 2 aspirin tablets still in the package; and a folded piece of paper covered in the most perfect masculine handwriting she had ever seen.
She picked up the note with trembling hands.
“Drink the water. Take the aspirin. See you at 9:00. J.”
Julian Cross had been in her apartment. In her room. He had put her in bed, left water, medicine, and a note as if this were normal. As if billionaire CEOs regularly took care of pathetic assistants who sent drunk texts at 11:52 on a Friday night.
Norah took the aspirin because her head was throbbing and because he had told her to. Apparently, she obeyed his orders even in a state of terminal hangover. She drank all the water and grabbed her phone, which was miraculously charging in the outlet beside the bed.
That meant someone had plugged it in.
Him.
He had taken care of that too.
She wanted to die just thinking about it.
Norah opened the group chat, Corporate Survivors, which she had created with Mara and Leo in a moment of weakness 3 months earlier.
“I sent drunk texts to my boss.”
The response was instant, which meant Mara had been waiting, probably awake since 5:00 in the morning just for this moment.
Mara: “You texted Julian Cross.”
Mara: “And he came to get you.”
Mara: “And carried you.”
Mara: “Like a dime-store romance.”
Leo: “I have photos.”
Norah’s heart stopped.
“Delete them.”
Leo: “Already printed and framed 1 for my desk.”
“I’m moving to Alaska.”
Mara: “Honey, you’re not going anywhere because you have to go to work in 2 hours and face the man who carried you in his arms yesterday.”
Leo: “And who probably put you in bed.”
Leo: “And left a note.”
“How do you know about the note?”
Leo: “I know everything, Norah. I am the all-seeing eye.”
Mara: “He stayed at the bar until midnight collecting witness statements.”
Norah dropped the phone and stared at the ceiling, calculating how many bus hours it would take to get to Canada and whether she could survive as a hermit in a forest cabin without ever looking Julian Cross in the eyes again.
He knew. He knew exactly what she thought of him in a suit.
She could not flee, so she dragged herself to the shower and let the hot water punish her for her sins.
Norah wore sunglasses inside the building because fluorescent light was her enemy and because if she could not see people clearly, maybe they could not see her shame clearly either. It was flawed logic, but it was all she had. She carried a triple-shot coffee that cost $10 and intended to drink it like medicine, because technically it was. She wore her most modest gray cardigan over a white blouse with a collar up to her neck, as if extreme modesty could cancel out Friday’s messages.
Leo intercepted her before she reached the elevators, his smile absolutely demonic.
“The legend herself,” he practically shouted.
3 people turned to look.
“Stop,” Norah hissed, low and desperate.
“Bridal style, Norah,” Leo continued relentlessly, walking beside her toward the elevators. “Bridal style. You were carried like a romcom heroine by the hottest and richest man in Manhattan.”
“I hate you.”
There was no venom in her voice because it was true. Everything he said was horrible, documented truth.
“Julian’s been here since 7,” Leo said.
That made Norah stop in the middle of the lobby.
“And he’s in a good mood, Norah. Like actually good mood.”
“Good,” Norah repeated.
Julian Cross did not have moods. Julian Cross had varying states of seriousness, ranging from extremely serious to frighteningly serious.
“Smiling,” Leo said, eyes gleaming with premium-grade gossip. “Smiling, Norah. Showing teeth. The whole thing. Owen almost had a heart attack.”
“That’s impossible.”
“See for yourself. He asked for you as soon as he arrived. Told me to let him know when you showed up. So technically, I should be notifying him now. But I’m warning you first because I like you and you deserve 10 seconds to prepare emotionally.”
Panic hit Norah in waves, hot and cold at the same time. She gripped the coffee like it was an anchor.
“He asked for me?”
“With first and last name,” Leo confirmed. “Actually, he said Norah in a different way. Like soft. I can’t explain it, but Owen gets it. You need to talk to Owen.”
No, she definitely did not need to talk to Owen. Owen was Julian’s best friend, probably knew everything, and would look at her in a way that confirmed her life was over and everyone knew.
“Breathe,” Leo said, putting a hand on her shoulder in a surprisingly gentle gesture. “You’re going to survive. And honestly, I think you’re going to like what happens next.”
Norah had no idea what he meant and did not have time to ask because the elevator arrived. She got in and pressed the button for the 20th floor with trembling fingers. Her sunglasses stayed firmly on her face, even though she looked ridiculous. Her coffee remained hot in her hand. Her heart beat so hard she was sure it was visible through her blouse.
Julian’s office door was intimidating, dark mahogany with a silver plaque that said CEO in elegant letters. Norah stood in front of it for exactly 30 seconds, gathering courage, trying to convince her lungs to function normally, rehearsing what she would say.
All she could think was that she was sorry for being pathetic, drunk, and inappropriate.
She gave up rehearsing and knocked, light and timid.
“Come in.”
His voice came clearly through the solid wood, and her hand turned the doorknob before she could reconsider her entire existence.
Julian was behind the desk, but not the way he normally was. He had removed his jacket and was wearing only a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms that should have been illegal. His tie was loose. A strand of hair had fallen over his forehead as if he had run a hand through it absently.
And he was smiling.
Not a small, polite smile. A real smile that reached his gray eyes and made little crinkles appear at the corners.
Norah’s brain stopped functioning because Julian Cross did not smile.
Except he was smiling at her now.
“Good morning, Norah.”
He said her name differently from before. Softer, almost intimate.
“Mr. Cross, I’m so sorry for—”
She started, but he raised a hand, and she stopped automatically because apparently her body responded to him without consulting her brain.
“Stop.”
“But I—”
“How’s your head?” he asked.
The genuine concern in his voice completely disarmed her.
“Horrible,” she answered honestly, because lying seemed impossible when he looked like that.
“Did the aspirin help?”
“Yes. Thank you for everything. For coming to get me and taking me home and for not letting me sleep on the street or wherever I would have ended up if—”
“Norah.”
He interrupted again and stood, coming around the desk, approaching. Suddenly he was too close and not close enough at the same time.
“You would never, ever be on the street. Not while I know where you are.”
The air between them seemed denser. Norah took 1 instinctive step back because proximity to Julian Cross was dangerous for her mental sanity.
“I will never behave unprofessionally again,” she said firmly, or tried to. Her voice came out shaky.
“So no drinking again?” he asked.
There was something in his voice, something playful she had never heard before.
“Never,” she confirmed vehemently.
“Shame,” he said casually, returning to the desk, leaning against the edge and crossing his arms in a way that made the muscles beneath his shirt very obvious.
“What?”
Her brain was not processing correctly.
“I liked them,” Julian said, looking directly at her.
The small smile returned.
The world either stopped spinning or spun faster. She could not tell.
“You liked them.”
“Especially the part about the suits.”
The way he said suits had a weight it should not have had, a suggestion that made her face heat instantly.
“Inappropriately gorgeous was particularly descriptive.”
“I’m going to resign,” Norah announced, because that was clearly the only rational solution.
He laughed, a real, short laugh that resonated in his chest.
“You’re not.”
“I have to.”
“This is completely forgotten,” he interrupted. “If you want.”
A pause. Heavy silence. His eyes on hers.
“Or,” he continued, voice lower now, more dangerous, “we can talk about it.”
“Talk about what?”
Her heart raced in a way that had nothing to do with the hangover.
“Why you texted me,” Julian said, pushing away from the desk and taking a step toward her. “Not Mara.”
“It was an accident,” Norah practically shouted, defensive.
“Was it?”
There was a challenge in his eyes that made something tighten in her stomach.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” he said simply.
The way he said it suggested he did not believe her at all.
Then he went back behind the desk, picked up a folder, and added almost casually, “But for the record—”
He stopped and looked at her again.
“You look beautiful too.”
The world froze.
“What?” was all she could say.
“Not in a suit,” Julian continued, returning his attention to the papers as if he had not just completely destroyed her reality. “You don’t wear suits. But those—”
He made a vague gesture with his hand.
“Little cardigans you like.”
He had noticed. The cardigans.
Julian Cross, CEO of Cross Global, a man with dozens of employees and millions of dollars to manage, had specifically noticed the clothes she wore.
“And very—”
He looked up again. The way he examined her made her feel exposed, even fully clothed.
“Distracting.”
Norah could not breathe. She had literally forgotten how.
Julian smiled again, small and devastating.
“Meeting in 20 minutes,” he said, voice returning to a professional tone, though with a layer beneath it that had not been there before. “Bring coffee. And maybe the sunglasses. Looks like you need them.”
It was pure provocation.
Her face was on fire when she left the office without saying anything, because speaking required brain capacity that had completely abandoned her.
Norah was carrying documents Julian had asked for when she heard a crystalline feminine voice before she saw the woman.
“Julian, darling, we need to talk about the charity event.”
Isabelle Lauron.
Julian’s ex-fiancée. Heiress to some European fortune. Owner of legs that seemed never to end and a face that belonged on magazine covers.
She stood in the hallway wearing a red dress that probably cost more than Norah’s annual salary. Her blonde hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders. When she saw Norah approaching with a stack of papers and a gray cardigan, she simply stopped.
Her blue, icy eyes scanned Norah from head to toe in less than 2 seconds, and Norah saw the exact moment Isabelle decided she was not a threat. She saw the disinterest settle in.
Then Julian came out of the conference room behind her, and everything changed.
“Norah,” he said immediately, ignoring Isabelle completely and walking toward her. “Did you bring the contracts?”
“Yes, Mr. Cross.”
Norah extended the folder, trying not to notice how Isabelle was now looking between the 2 of them with a completely different expression, calculating and sharp.
Julian took the folder, but his fingers brushed hers. By accident or design, Norah did not know. The touch lasted half a second longer than professional.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “You’re always so efficient.”
Then he smiled.
That small, private smile that had been destroying her all day.
Isabelle saw it. Of course she saw it. Women like Isabelle did not miss anything.
So she approached, voice honey mixed with poison.
“This is the famous Norah. Julian mentioned you.”
It was a lie. An absolute lie. Norah could see it in Julian’s eyes.
“Isabelle,” Julian said in warning.
But Isabelle ignored him and extended a hand with perfectly manicured nails.
“Isabelle Lauron,” she introduced herself, though Norah knew exactly who she was because everyone in the office knew. “It’s a pleasure to meet the person who keeps Julian so organized.”
The word organized sounded like an insult wrapped in silk.
Norah shook her hand briefly.
“The pleasure is mine, Miss Lauron.”
“Isabelle, please,” she insisted, though she was still examining Norah. Her eyes fixed on the cardigan, the glasses, the simple bun. Norah saw when Isabelle reached her conclusion. Saw the exact moment she decided that Julian and Norah were impossible. Saw the confidence return.
“You’re adorable, Norah. Really adorable.”
Pure condescension.
Julian took a step closer to Norah, protective and territorial.
“Isabelle was leaving,” he said.
It was not a suggestion.
“Was I?” Isabelle asked, arching a perfect eyebrow.
“You were,” he confirmed, his voice still covered in velvet.
She laughed, light and rehearsed.
“Always so direct, Julian. One of the things I loved most about you.”
She turned back to Norah.
“It was a pleasure, Norah. I’m sure we’ll see each other around.”
It was a threat disguised as kindness.
She left, expensive perfume trailing behind her. Norah stood with Julian beside her, feeling tension radiating from him in waves.
“She’s—” Norah started, then stopped because she did not know how to finish.
“Past,” Julian said firmly, turning to look directly at her. “Completely past.”
But the way Isabelle had looked at them, the way she smiled before leaving, told Norah that Isabelle did not believe that at all.
Julian asked Norah to get the old quarterly reports, something about growth comparison. She was in the file room, trying to reach a box on the highest shelf because, naturally, the box she needed was in the least accessible place possible. She stretched on tiptoe, fingers brushing the edge of the box, unable to grasp it.
Then she heard the door open behind her.
“Need help?”
Julian’s voice was close. Closer than it should have been.
Norah turned too quickly. Her foot slipped in the low heel she was wearing, her balance was gone, and she started to fall.
Firm hands caught her by the waist. Pulled her.
Suddenly, she was pressed against his chest, her hands braced on his shoulders to steady herself. Their faces were inches apart.
Too close. Way too close.
Not close enough.
Norah froze completely, unable to move, breathe, or think. She could only feel his warmth through the layers of clothing, the scent of masculine cologne and something that was simply him, the firmness of his hands on her waist as he held her like she was precious and fragile at once.
“You need to stop stumbling,” Julian said, voice low.
But he did not let go. Did not step away. His eyes stayed on hers, stormy gray and too intense.
“I don’t stumble,” Norah responded automatically, though her voice came out whispered and without conviction. “You just appear suddenly and startle me.”
“I startle you?”
There was something dangerous in the way he said it. A challenge.
One hand moved from her waist to her face. His fingers brushed her cheek, tucking away a strand of hair that had escaped her bun.
She should have said yes. She should have confirmed that he startled her, that everything about him startled her: the power, the intensity, the way he looked at her as if she were the only person in the world.
What came out of her mouth was completely different.
“Not the way you’re thinking.”
“And what way am I thinking?” Julian asked, his thumb now tracing the line of her jaw in a movement so slow and deliberate it made her stomach tighten.
“Like fear,” Norah managed, even though every cell in her body was screaming things very different from fear. “You don’t scare me. You make me feel something else.”
His eyes darkened. His focus dropped to her mouth for a second before returning.
“What’s something else?”
Norah did not know how to answer. She did not know how to explain the way her heart raced when he was near, the way her skin tingled when he touched her, the way she lost the ability to think straight when he looked at her like this.
So she did not answer with words.
She stayed there, looking back, breathing faster, lips parted.
Julian leaned in just a little. It was almost imperceptible, but she felt it. She felt the change in the air. Felt the intention. Her body reacted instinctively, tilting upward, closing the last millimeters of distance between them.
He was going to kiss her there, in the file room, in the middle of the workday.
He was going to kiss her, and she was going to let him.
This was going to change everything.
His mouth was close enough for her to feel the heat. Close enough that it would only take 1 more centimeter. Just closing her eyes. Letting it happen.
Then the file room door opened with a loud noise.
Owen’s voice cut through the moment like a knife.
“Julian, you need to—oh.”
Norah pulled away from Julian so fast she nearly stumbled again. Her face was on fire. Her heart beat so hard she was sure everyone could hear it.
Julian released a long breath before turning to Owen with an expression that could freeze hell itself.
“Can this wait?” Julian asked, voice too controlled.
Owen looked between them, a smile slowly forming.
“Actually, it can. It can wait quite a while. It can wait until tomorrow if necessary.”
“Owen,” Julian said, clear warning in his voice.
“Leaving.”
Owen raised both hands in surrender.
“Leaving now. Completely ignore my existence. Continue what you were doing. Or almost doing. Or clearly about to do.”
He left and closed the door, but Norah heard his laughter on the other side.
She wanted to die. Simply die of embarrassment.
“Norah,” Julian started.
But she was already moving toward the door.
“I need to—the reports. You asked for the reports. I’ll get the reports.”
She was babbling and making no sense at all.
“Norah, look at me,” he asked softly.
She stopped, but did not turn.
“This can’t happen,” she said at the door. “You’re my boss, and this is completely inappropriate, and I can’t lose my job because of a moment of—”
“A moment of what?” he asked, closer behind her now.
“Weakness.”
She finished, even though the word felt wrong. Nothing about what she had felt in his arms had seemed weak.
“Look at me,” he repeated, firmer now.
Norah turned. He was there, too close again, looking at her with an intensity that made her knees weak.
“That wasn’t weakness,” Julian said, each word measured and deliberate. “And you’re not going to lose your job. Ever. Not for this. Not for anything.”
“You can’t promise that,” she said, voice small.
“I can,” he said. “And I do.”
Heavy silence stretched between them, filled with unsaid things.
Then he stepped back, creating professional distance. The way he looked at her had nothing professional about it.
“See you at 5,” he said.
He left before she could respond.
Norah was in the reception area, waiting for the elevator, trying to process everything that had happened that day, when she heard footsteps behind her. She knew without looking that it was him.
“Norah.”
She stopped and turned.
Julian stood there, jacket over his arm, tie still loose, looking tired but satisfied in a way she had never seen before.
“Mr. Cross,” she said professionally, though her entire body remembered what it had felt like to be pressed against him hours earlier.
“Next time you need a ride,” he said, pausing and taking half a step closer, “text me on purpose.”
“That’s not appropriate,” she replied, but without any conviction.
“Calling me at midnight wasn’t either. But here we are.”
“Here we are,” she repeated stupidly.
“Good night, Norah,” he said, but he did not move.
He stayed there, looking.
“Good night, Mr. Cross.”
“Julian,” he said suddenly.
“What?”
“Call me Julian,” he repeated, voice lower, more intense. “At least outside the office.”
The elevator arrived. The doors opened. Norah entered like an automaton, turned to look at him 1 last time, and found him still watching her with the half smile that would haunt her dreams.
The doors began to close.
Julian stepped forward, holding the door and preventing it from closing completely.
“And Norah,” he said.
“Yes?”
“About today in the file room.”
He stopped, eyes fixed on hers.
“Next time Owen interrupts, I’m locking the door first.”
The doors closed before Norah could respond. She sank against the elevator wall, heart racing, hands trembling, face completely on fire.
Whatever this was, it had just gone from flirting to promise.
She did not know if she was ready for what he was promising.
But she wanted to find out.
Julian was making excuses, and Norah knew it. In 8 months of work, he had never needed her opinion on contract negotiations, never asked her to review investor presentations, and never called her into his office 6 times before noon to discuss details that could absolutely have been resolved by email.
But that day, her presence was apparently essential for every microscopic decision he needed to make. She should have been irritated. She was not, because every time she walked into his office, he looked at her in the way that made her stomach flip.
“What do you think of this font?” he asked, pointing at the computer screen, where an extremely technical corporate presentation was open.
Norah looked at him with a raised eyebrow because he was clearly testing how far he could go before she called him on the lie.
“Arial,” she said, crossing her arms. “You use Arial in literally every presentation since I started working here.”
“Maybe it’s time to change.”
He looked back at the screen with complete seriousness, as if the choice between Arial and Helvetica were the most important decision of his career.
“Julian.”
She used his first name in the office for the first time and saw his shoulders tense.
“You’re inventing reasons to keep me here.”
He stopped, fingers frozen over the keyboard, then turned his chair to look directly at her.
“I am,” he admitted without hesitation. “Is it working?”
Her heart did something strange in her chest. She tried to maintain professional composure, though everything in her wanted to smile like an idiot.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
He stood from the chair. Then he started toward her again, closing the distance with those slow, calculated steps that made it feel like he was hunting.
“On why you’re doing this,” she said, taking a step back, because proximity to Julian Cross was a danger to her sanity.
Her back met the wall near the door. She had nowhere else to go.
“Because I like having you here,” he said, stopping an arm’s length away. “I like looking up from the computer screen and seeing you sitting there, reading contracts with all that concentration. I like the way you bite your lip when you’re thinking. I like knowing you’re 10 feet away from me and not on the floor below, where I can’t—”
He stopped, jaw tightening.
“Can’t what?” Norah pressed, her voice lower than intended.
“Protect you.”
The sudden vulnerability in his voice completely disarmed her.
“Owen said Isabelle came back yesterday. That she approached you. That it was unpleasant.”
“She was polite,” Norah lied.
They both knew it was a lie.
“She was condescending and possessive and completely out of line,” Julian corrected. “And I should have—”
“You don’t need to protect me from her,” Norah interrupted. “I can handle Isabelle Lauron.”
“I know you can. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to do it anyway.”
He took another step, eliminating almost all the distance.
CONTINUE READ NEXT PART>>>>>>>>His Shy Assistant Drunk-Texted “Come Get Me”—10 Minutes Later, the Millionaire Was at Her Door
