Quin
I sat outside Tristan's office, fake-typing away, pretending at productivity. My screen looked busy enough—if anyone asked, I was finalizing meeting briefs. Reality: I'd typed the same line about three dozen times. I told myself to focus, like that ever works. There was actual work piling up. Agendas, calls, handouts—the obvious chaos. But I wasn't doing any of it.
I was staring straight through that glass wall, like some undercover agent with the worst poker face in history. Why? Because his Personal Assistant had just arrived. Not snuck in, not tiptoed—she made an entrance. She looked like temptation in human form: skirt, blouse, heels that probably cost more than my rent. She didn't knock. She waltzed in, as if the building belonged to her.
I tried to look away. Didn't happen.
She was all over his desk, way too close. I held my breath like an idiot, only noticing when my lungs complained. Then she reached up and—come on—fixed his tie. Adjusted. His. Tie. I felt my stomach twist, and for a second wondered if this was some reality TV showdown.
Tristan? Unbothered. He stepped back, said something I couldn't catch, then moved to the couch. Out of sight. Awesome. Now I only saw her, and when she slid into the seat next to him, I sat up straighter—half annoyed, half…something I didn't want to admit.
What was happening in there? And, seriously, why did I care?
I pressed my palms to my cheeks. Reminder: he's your boss, Quin. Not your fiancé, boyfriend, or whatever you call those weird in-betweens. Your boss.
Determined to reclaim some pride, I returned to my laptop. Did I work? Nope. I Googled 'professional role of a Personal Assistant.' The results were painfully official—schedules, confidential tasks, admin support. Almost identical to my job. Which, honestly, made things even more confusing.
I closed the tab, glanced back through the glass. No tie adjusting. No drama. Just talking. Maybe I was imagining the whole thing. I forced myself back to work, still a mess inside.
Then, the office door swung open. Tristan strolled out—calm, but there was something sharper in his eyes. Like he'd been annoyed, but buried it. He moved past me, all business.
"Cancel my two o'clock. Reschedule for tomorrow," he said.
I responded without thinking, sounding (I hoped) like I hadn't just been spying.
The Personal Assistant followed a moment later. Everything about her screamed irritation—tight jaw, angry footsteps, perfume trailing behind her. She caught me staring.
"What are you looking at?" she snapped.
My eyes went wide. Back to the screen. "Quarterly projections," I mumbled.
She scoffed, stormed off. Angry. Definitely angry.
Which meant…something hadn't gone her way. I glanced at Tristan's closed door, and—yeah—a tiny, rogue smile snuck onto my lips. Shouldn't feel victorious. But there it was.
I wondered what happened in there. Should I ask? Or would that just torpedo every shred of professionalism I'd managed to fake?
I stared at his door, then my calendar, then the door again. This was dangerous territory, and I was way too close to crossing the line.