Some beautiful, some smart, some both. None of them made him look the way he looks at you. — Her smile was kind, maternal.
— “I’m just saying that some bosses and employees transcend those labels.” — “Mrs. Davis…” — I started, but didn’t know how to finish, how to explain that I couldn’t think that way, that I needed this job, this stability, and mixing feelings would be a disaster. — “It’s just a job.”
It had to be just a job. She nodded, but the smile didn’t fade. — “Of course, dear. Whatever you say.”
The following week, the universe decided to test how well I could keep things strictly professional. I woke up Monday morning feeling like I’d been run over by a truck. My throat was raw, my head was pounding, and my whole body ached in a way that went beyond normal tired.
I took some Advil, drank coffee like it was a miracle cure, and went to work anyway. I couldn’t miss. Not this soon.
Not when I finally had a job that paid the bills and gave me some dignity. Nick had meetings all day, which meant I managed to hide in my office, answering emails and filing papers, shivering under the cardigan I’d thrown over my blouse. The temperature in the house was perfect.
It was my body that was failing. I managed to hold it together until 3:00 p.m. That’s when Nick came back from a business lunch, walked into my office to ask for a file, and stopped mid-sentence.
— “Are you okay?” — There was a note of concern in his voice that hadn’t been there before. — “Perfectly fine,” I lied, trying to ignore how the letters on the computer screen were starting to blur.
— “Which file do you need?” He walked over and, before I could protest, pressed his palm to my forehead. His hand was cool against my burning skin, and the touch was so unexpected I froze completely.
— “You have a fever. Why are you working?” — “Because it’s my job.”
— I pulled away from his hand, even though an irrational part of my brain wanted to melt into the touch. — “I’m fine.” — “No, you’re not.”
— His tone shifted from concerned to commanding in a second. — “You’re stopping right now. Go to the guest room and rest.”
That’s not a request. — “But I can’t…” — I started to protest, but he cut me off.
— “I pay you even when you’re sick. Go to the guest room now.” — His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.
The CEO voice—the one that moved millions and closed deals. — “I’ll have Mrs. Davis prepare the bed.” My pride wanted to resist.
My traitorous body wanted to cry with gratitude. In the end, I just nodded, standing up slowly because the room spun when I did. Nick instinctively reached out, catching my elbow to steady me.
— “Can you walk?” — The worry was back in his voice. — “I can.”
But I let him lead me anyway, and the heat of his hand on my arm was the only thing that felt real as we went upstairs. Mrs. Davis was already fixing the bed when we arrived, her face a mix of maternal worry and “I told you so.” — “Poor girl, working too hard, not eating right.”
I’ll make some soup. I sank into the soft mattress, pulling the duvet up to my chin. Even though I was still dressed, the room was spinning slightly, and I closed my eyes to make it stop.
I heard quiet voices. Mrs. Davis and Nick were talking by the door, but the words blurred into a low hum. I fell asleep deeply, dreamlessly—the kind of sleep that comes when the body finally gives up the fight.
I woke up to the sound of the door opening quietly. The light was dimmer now, the room bathed in the golden glow of late evening. Nick was walking in, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl.
— “Mrs. Davis made soup.” — He set the tray on the nightstand, sitting on the edge of the bed so that the mattress dipped toward him. — “Like she said, you need to eat.”
— “She made it, but you brought it. I noticed.” — My voice was still raspy.
A smile touched his lips. — “I insisted. She put up a fight.”
I paid more. — “Literally?” — I couldn’t help a small laugh that turned into a cough.
— “Figuratively, but she got the point.” — Nick picked up the bowl, holding it out. — “You need to stop killing yourself for work.”
— “Says the workaholic who sleeps four hours a night and works weekends.” — I took the bowl but stared at him over the rim. — “You have zero moral high ground here.”
— “Touché.” — That smile again, genuine and disarming. — “But at least I’m choosing it.”
You’re doing it because you think you don’t have a choice. — “Because I don’t.” — The honesty slipped out before I could stop it.
— “College doesn’t pay for itself. Life doesn’t pay for itself.” — “I know.”
— His voice softened. — “But you work for me now, and part of my job as your employer is to make sure you don’t drop dead of exhaustion in my office. It would look terrible on my resume.”
I laughed again. This time more carefully. — “How thoughtful of you.”
I ate the soup in silence while Nick stayed on the edge of the bed. It should have been awkward. This intimacy, forced by illness and care.
But it wasn’t. It was comfortable. Dangerously comfortable.
— “Better?” — he asked when I finished. — “Better.”
I handed the bowl back, and our fingers brushed for a second. That electricity again, zipping across my skin, making my heart skip. His eyes met mine.
For a moment, neither of us moved. His hand was still near mine, so close I could feel the warmth of his skin. It would have been so easy to close the gap, to lace our fingers together, to admit that this—whatever this was—was more than a professional relationship.
Nick pulled away first, standing up quickly and grabbing the tray. — “Rest. I’ll check on you later.”
— “Nick…” — I didn’t know what I was going to say. — “Thank you.” — “Don’t worry about it.”
Please stay. Just rest, Angela. — He stopped in the doorway, looking back.
— “That’s an order from your boss.” And then he was gone, leaving me alone with a heart beating too fast and thoughts that definitely didn’t belong to an employee thinking about her boss. Chris showed up the next day.
Nick must have called her, because my best friend arrived with wide eyes and an expression that was half-worry, half-disbelief. — “This house is obscene,” were her first words as Mrs. Davis led her into the room. — “How do you work here and not lose your mind?”
— “With difficulty.” — My voice was still a bit rough, but I felt much better after sixteen hours of sleep. — “Thanks for coming.”
— “Nick Peterson personally called to tell me you were sick! Of course I came.” — She sat on the bed, studying my face.
— “Also, I had to see the man who is clearly obsessed with you.” — “He’s not obsessed, he’s just a good boss.” — Even as I said the words, they sounded hollow.
— “Angela.” — Chris took my hand. — “He called personally. He didn’t have an assistant or a secretary do it.”
He dialed my number himself and described your symptoms with a level of detail that suggests he’s been watching you very closely. Before I could answer, the door opened. Nick walked in, stopped when he saw Chris, and something interesting flashed across his face.
Surprise. Awkwardness at being interrupted. — “Sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”
— He looked at me. — “How are you feeling?” — “Better, thank you.”
— My voice was softer than I intended. Chris looked between us, and I could see the gears turning in her head. — “Mr. Peterson, can I talk to you for a second outside?”
Nick looked genuinely surprised but nodded. — “Sure.” They stepped out, and through the partially open door, I heard Chris’s voice.
Quiet but distinct. — “Do you like her, Mr. Peterson?”
