"You could always go out with Knox again," Harper suggested. Oliver's spoon clattered against his mug as he froze mid-stir, his head snapping toward her with wide-eyed surprise. "Knox? The designer who thinks wearing socks with sandals is a fashion statement?" Glen burst out laughing at his horrified expression. "Oh, come on! Knox is not that bad. He just has– unique taste." Oliver shuddered dramatically. "Unique is a generous word. I one saw him wear a leather jacket to a beach party. In eighty-degree weather." he turned back to look at Harper with a pleading look. "Glen went on a date with Knox. Everything was going smoothly until Glen criticised Kilts," Harper explained. Glen sighed dramatically. "I am not Scottish, sue me," he complained.
Oliver nearly choked on his coffee at Glen's dramatic recounting, his shoulders shaking with a silent laughter. "You criticized his hilts? Knox loves those things more than his own mother." He set his mug down and wiped tears of mirth from his blue eyes, clearly entertained by the image of Glen attempting to navigate a date with their notoriously temperamental designer. "I am sorry, but that is priceless," Oliver managed between chuckles. "Knox probably spent three hours explaining the historical significance of each pleat while you were trying to find a polite way to say, 'your knees are showing.'" Glen crossed his arms defensively. "It's not my fault; I was raised in California! We don't have kilts here. Or bagpipes." Oliver sobered slightly, running a hand through his messy black hair as he glances at the clock on the microwave. "As amusing as their drama is, I really do need to get going."
Harper kissed Oliver on the cheek. "See you at the office later," she said sweetly. Oliver's expression softened completely at her sweet kiss, the brief contact sending warmth spreading through his chest. His hand came up to cup her cheek gently, lingering for a moment before he reluctantly pulled away. "See you there," he echoed, his voice carrying a hint of something deeper than professional obligation. "Try not to make Glen cry about kilts before I get back." With a final nod toward Glen, Oliver grabbed his suit jacket from the back of a kitchen chair and shrugged it on with practiced ease. The movement smoothed out the wrinkles from last night's activities, transforming him back into the CEO who commanded boardrooms instead of bedrooms. "Thanks for the coffee," he added with a genuine smile directed at her alone. "And for– last night."
Oliver left Harper's apartment, his footsteps echoed down the staircase, each step taking him further from the warmth of her bedroom and closer to the cold reality of his professional life. The morning air outside carried a crips bite as he emerged onto the street, his driver already waiting patiently by the curb in his black sedan. Sliding into the backseat, he ran a hand over his face, trying to erase the lingering image of her in that black suit. The memory of her lips against his cheek, so casual and intimate, sent a familiar ache through his chest. "Morning, Mr. Williams," his driver greeted respectfully as he pulled away from the curb. Oliver barely registered the greeting, his mind already racing through emails and meeting schedules. But no matter how many spreadsheets he reviewed or phone calls he made today, he knew one thing for certain: seeing her again in just a few hours felt less like work and more like anticipation.
The driver stopped in front of Oliver's apartment building, and he climbed out of the car and strode purposefully toward the apartment building, the morning sunlight glinting off the polished surface of his black sedan. He went up his personal elevator and inside his penthouse apartment, he shed his rumpled suit jacket and tossed it carelessly onto his bed. His mind was still replaying the morning's events– Glen's casual revelation about his dating history, Harpers sweet kiss goodbye. The contrast between their youthful energy and his own structured routine felt more pronounced than ever. He moved efficiently through his morning routine, selecting a fresh dress shift from his wardrobe and tying his toe with practiced ease. Each movement was precise, controlled, yet beneath the surface, something had shifted. The image of Harper in that black suit, standing so confidently in her own space, lingering in his mind. As he buttoned his cuffs, he glanced at his wristwatch, noting the time with a frown.
He was already cutting it close to arrive at the office on schedule. The thought of spending another eight hours behind his desk, separated from her by floors of corporate hierarchy, felt strangely unbearable. Grabbing his briefcase from the entry table, he paused by the hallway mirror to adjust his collar. His reflection showed the familiar CEO façade– sharp lines, expensive cut of his suit– but his eyes seemed different somehow. Less guarded than usual. Back in the car, he pulled out his phone and hesitated for a moment before typing out a message to Harper's work email address. "Meeting scheduled for 10 AM re: Q2 projections. Can you prepare preliminary analyses beforehand?" the request was legitimate work-related business, but his choice of wording felt deliberate. He wanted an excuse to see her earlier than necessary. His driver merged seamlessly into morning traffic as he checked his watch again.
Harper replied to his email within 20 minutes after he sent it. "Your new secretary, Stells, has already prepared the preliminary analysis. She is prepared. I think you will like her. See you at the office." Olver's fingers tightened around his phone as he reads her email, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. "Stella," the name felt foreign on his tongue already. He leaned back against the plush leather seat, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "Change of place," he announced to his driver, his voice carrying its usual authoritative edge. "Take the scenic route this morning. I need to clear my head." The car shifted direction smoothly, navigating away from the direct path to their corporate headquarters. Oliver stared out the window at the passing cityscape without truly seeing it. Her words about his new secretary echoed in his mind– 'She is prepared. You will like her.' He ran a hand through his messy black hair, the gesture betraying a frustration he rarely allowed himself to show. The though of another woman handling his meeting, sitting in Harper's chair, making coffee in her place, felt like an intrusion he had not anticipated.