We spent the next hour going over the job. Managing his chaotic calendar, filtering non-urgent emails, coordinating with Mrs. Davis on the household, and handling travel arrangements. The salary he offered was triple what I was making at both my other jobs combined.
— “This is too generous,” I couldn’t help but say. — “It’s fair for the amount of work I expect.” — Nick looked at me directly.
— “I want to be clear, Angela. This is a job, not a favor. You will work.”
You’ll earn every penny. Nothing more. Something in my chest relaxed at those words.
— “Understood. Perfect.” He held out his hand.
— “Welcome to the team.” When our skin met, palm to palm, I felt a spark of electricity shoot up my arm. I could tell by his eyes that he felt it too.
But we both pretended nothing happened, letting go maybe a second later than professional courtesy required. It was a job. Just a job.
I kept telling myself that as Mrs. Davis showed me the office that would be mine. As Nick explained his chaotic filing system. As our eyes accidentally met several times throughout the day.
Just a job. Though something deep in my mind whispered that falling asleep in that car had changed everything. Chapter Two.
Professional Distance. The first few weeks working for Nick Peterson were a revelation in how exhausting organized chaos could be. His schedule was a nightmare of overlapping meetings, double-booked appointments, and reminders that made absolutely no sense.
“Don’t forget to call M. about that thing” — it wasn’t exactly specific, but I quickly learned that M. was Mark, his attorney, and “that thing” was a multi-million dollar merger. I dove into the work with the same intensity I applied to everything in my life. I completely reorganized his schedule, creating a color-coded system a child could follow.
I handled the non-urgent emails with a professionalism I didn’t know I possessed, separating the signal from the noise. With Mrs. Davis’s guidance, the house ran like a Swiss watch under my management. Nick was impressed.
I saw it in his eyes when he reviewed my work, in the way his eyebrow would quirk up before he’d give a silent nod of approval. But the impression didn’t lead to intimacy. He maintained an almost military professional distance: working sixteen-hour days, leaving early, returning late, and barely interacting with me outside of short, direct instructions.
“Cancel the 3:00, move the London call. I need the financial reports by tomorrow.” Orders barked over his shoulder in the hallway, always moving, always on the go.
It was as if stopping meant admitting he was a human being and not a tireless corporate machine. I should have been grateful for the distance. It made it easier to ignore the way my stomach tightened when I heard him come home late at night.
It made it easier to pretend I didn’t notice the sound of his footsteps upstairs or the creak of his office chair when he finally sat down to work a bit more before bed. Но there were moments, small and fleeting, that were impossible to ignore. Like that Tuesday at 2:00 a.m. when I went down to the kitchen for water and a bit of studying.
I had finals coming up, and the silence of the estate in the pre-dawn hours was perfect for focusing. I turned on only the light over the kitchen island, spread out my books and notebooks, and lost myself in economic theories. — “Is sleep for the weak?”
His voice made me jump in my chair. Nick was standing in the kitchen doorway, barefoot, in gym shorts and a T-shirt that hugged his frame in a way my tired brain shouldn’t have noticed. His hair was a mess, like he’d run his hands through it a thousand times, and he had a shadow of stubble on his jaw that hadn’t been there that morning.
— “Says the man who’s up at 2:00 a.m.” He walked over, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and leaned against the island across from me—too close. Or maybe it was just the time of night, the silence of the house, the way the dim light cast shadows on his face, making him look less like a CEO and more like just a man.
— “I have an exam tomorrow. Or today, technically.” — I looked back down at my book, pretending to read the same line I’d already read five times.
— “And you? Why are you up?” — “Investor pitch.”
It has to be perfect. — Nick took a sip of water. His throat moved in a way that made my eyes follow involuntarily. — “You’re killing yourself with the studying and the work again.” — “And you’re killing yourself with work,” I shot back, looking up to meet his gaze. — “At least I have an excuse—tuition.”
He smiled. Not the polite CEO smile, but something genuine that lit up his dark eyes and made a dimple appear at the corner of his mouth. — “Touché.”
We stood there for a moment that lasted too long and not long enough. The air between us felt thick, charged with something neither of us wanted to name. Then Nick straightened up, the professional distance returning like a mask.
— “Don’t stay up too late. I need you functional tomorrow.” — “Yes, sir.” — The answer came out automatically, but with a hint of irony that made him shake his head as he left the kitchen.
I should have gone back to studying. Instead, I sat there staring at the empty doorway. My heart was beating a little faster than caffeine alone could justify.
Mrs. Davis started to notice. Of course she did. The woman had an eagle eye and decades of experience reading people.
The following Thursday, while I was filing papers in the main study, she appeared with tea and that all-knowing smile that made me want to hide. — “You’re doing a wonderful job, dear.” — She set the cup down next to me, settling into a nearby chair.
— “Mr. Peterson has been much more organized. He even mentioned it yesterday.” — “It’s my job,” I said, keeping my tone neutral and focusing on the documents.
— “In the ten years I’ve worked in this house, I’ve never seen Mr. Peterson laugh.” — Mrs. Davis spoke casually, but I felt the weight of her words. — “Until you showed up.”
Now he laughs. Not often, but he does. You make him laugh.
Heat rose up my neck. — “We’re just both sarcastic. We clash in that way.” — “Dear, I’ve seen many assistants pass through this house…”
