— “Can’t sleep.” — He looked at me, vulnerable in a way I rarely saw.
— “Want to talk?” It was strange, him asking for company. Nick Peterson, the man who worked alone until the early hours, who kept his distance from everyone, was standing at my door asking to talk.
— “The balcony,” I gestured. — “I noticed they connect.” We stepped out into the cold air, sitting in the comfortable chairs the hotel provided.
The city pulsed below, distant and unreal. For a while, neither of us spoke; we just existed in the same space without the usual barriers. — “My parents are alive,” Nick broke the silence abruptly.
— “But they might as well not be. They call on my birthday, at Christmas, send expensive gifts that prove they don’t know me. It’s lonely growing up in a house full of everything except love.”
I looked at him, surprised by the raw honesty. — “Is that why you work so hard? To fill the void?” — “And you?” — He turned to me.
— “Why do you work until you’re exhausted?” The answer caught in my throat for a second. No one ever asked.
Everyone just assumed it was financial necessity. — “My parents died when I was fourteen. Car accident.”
I went through the foster system, bounced around until I was eighteen. I learned that the only person I can rely on is myself. That no one is coming to save me, so I have to save myself. — “Angela…” — His voice softened.
— “I work so hard because I’m afraid,” I continued.
The words poured out now that they’d started. — “Afraid of being that girl with nothing again. Afraid of depending on someone and then having them leave. Afraid of not being enough.” — “You are more than enough.” — Nick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
— “You’re extraordinary, and it scares me how often I think about that.” My heart leaped. — “Nick…”
— “You’re the first person in years who sees me as a person,” he continued, looking at the city but talking to me, “not a bank account or a useful business contact. You argue with me, you laugh at me, you challenge me. It’s refreshing. It’s addictive.”
— “You’re the first person who helped me without making me feel lesser,” I admitted quietly, “who offered me an opportunity, not a handout. Who treats me like an equal, even when we clearly aren’t.” He turned to me so fast I blinked.
— “We are equals. Money doesn’t change that. You’re one of the strongest people I know.” Everything you’ve achieved, you did on your own.
And I just happened to be born into the right family. We were too close again. I could count the shades of color in his eyes, see the pulse beating in his neck. His breathing became uneven, matching mine. The air between us grew thick, charged, impossible to ignore. He leaned in.
Or maybe it was me. It didn’t matter. The distance closed until I felt his breath on my face. Until our lips were inches apart. Until I pulled away, quickly and awkwardly. My heart was thumping so hard it hurt.
— “I can’t, Angela.” — There was pain in his voice. — “I can’t,” I repeated, standing up and creating physical distance between us.
— “I need this job. I can’t risk complicating everything. If this goes wrong, if I lose everything again… I just can’t.”
Nick sat there for a long moment, jaw tight, hands gripped on the armrests of the chair. Then he stood up too, nodding slowly. — “I understand.”
But his eyes showed clear disappointment. A restrained hurt and something else. Something so strong it made me want to take back my decision. To throw caution out the window and just feel. — “We should get some sleep.” — My voice sounded raspy.
— “Early meeting tomorrow.” — “Yeah.” — He headed back to his suite but stopped.
— “For the record, I would never let you lose anything, but I respect your choice.” And then he was gone, leaving me alone on the balcony with a heavy heart and the certainty that I’d made the right decision, even if it felt absolutely wrong. The flight back on Sunday was torture.
We tried to work, but the atmosphere had shifted irrevocably. Every accidental touch when passing papers felt like a burn. Every meeting of eyes lasted too long. We couldn’t go back to cold professionalism, but we couldn’t cross the line I’d drawn. Mrs. Davis noticed immediately when we returned. Of course she did.
The woman had a radar for romantic tension. — “How was the trip?” — she asked far too innocently while I was sorting the mail that had arrived in our absence. — “Productive?” I didn’t look up from the envelopes. — “The meeting went well.”
— “Hmm…” — The sound she made suggested she didn’t believe a word of it. — “You both seem tense.” — “It’s just work.”
The lie sounded pathetic even to my own ears. In the following weeks, the tension only built. Small accidental touches happened with suspicious frequency. Hands met when both reached for the same pen. Shoulders brushed when we reviewed documents side-by-side. Fingers touched when passing the morning coffee.
And the looks. Good grief, the looks. Across the office during meetings. At dinner, when Mrs. Davis insisted we eat together. In the mornings, when we bumped into each other in the kitchen before either of us was fully awake. Mrs. Davis watched it all with that same knowing smile but had the grace not to comment. She just smiled and arranged for us to be alone with suspicious frequency.
— “I need a date for an event,” Nick announced one day in October, walking into the office with that energy that meant he was uncomfortable but trying not to show it. — “Corporate charity gala on Friday.”
— “Do you want me to find you a date?” — I asked, ignoring the pang of something unpleasant in my chest. — “No.”
— He shoved his hands in his pockets. The gesture he made when he was nervous. — “I want you to go with me.”
In a professional capacity. There will be important contacts there, and I need someone by my side who understands the business. — “Oh…” — my voice was quiet. — “Sure, in a professional capacity.” — “I’ll have a dress sent over,” he continued, not looking at me, “something appropriate for the event.” The dress that arrived on Thursday was breathtaking.
Black, elegant, and surely cost more than six months of rent. I touched the delicate fabric, imagining what it would be like to wear something like that. — “It’s a work uniform,” Nick said when I protested the price. That sarcastic smile was back. — “You can’t exactly go in jeans, can you?” I rolled my eyes but agreed.
What choice did I have?
