Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 83(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 83(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Back at my desk, I tackle the additional paperwork with the determination of a girl who knows her favorite TV show is starting in an hour. I rifle through the papers, scrawling notes and summaries with the precision borne of far too many evenings spent working overtime.
By the time I puzzle through the last page and the clock ticks its way triumphantly to six-thirty, I'm ready to make my escape. I gather everything neatly, swing by Bossy McGrumpster’s office to drop off the completed work, and as I turn to leave, my professionalism slips just a tad.
“Have a great night, Mr. Blackwood,” I say, my voice as sweet as the hot cocoa dreams are made of.
Noah glances up from his laptop, surprised by the syrupy cheerfulness of my tone. His brow furrows just slightly. “See you tomorrow, Scarlett.”
Did I just imagine the hint of warmth there, or am I simply desperate to find a hint of humanity in my handsome tyrant of a boss?
As I walk home, my brain keeps replaying our interactions over and over, looking for secret messages like a poorly developed spy. Do I like Noah Blackstone? Resent him? Or is it some bizarre mix of “this could be more if the stars aligned, and coffee didn’t run out?”
Once I’m home, I throw myself onto my couch and turn on the TV, but my mind isn’t on the drama series playing in front of me. Instead, it’s weaving its own narrative about what lies beneath my boss’ gruff exterior. There might be more to him than just barking orders and keeping impeccable time. Maybe he’s the kind of guy who rescues kittens from trees but hides it behind a scowl. Or maybe he’s just someone who drinks his coffee black and picks the marshmallows out of Lucky Charms. It’s hard to tell because he’s grumpy and tight-lipped, and beneath that god-like exterior is a mystery wrapped in Armani.
My grumpy kitty, Minnie, walks over and stretches her lithe, white body out next to me. “How’s my big girl doing?” Okay. Yes, I talk to my cat.
Her bored eye roll and slight flick to her tail are the only answers I get. Oh well, right now, I’ll take it.
The show plays on, but I’m barely paying attention. It’s silly to think about him outside of work like this, with his perfect, chiseled jawline covered by a perpetual five o'clock shadow. But the human brain is weirdly persistent when it comes to linking A to B, especially if B is a mysterious, alluring boss you spend most of your waking hours with.
As I finally begin to drift off into a much-needed slumber, I can’t help but wonder: Am I ready for whatever revelation—or disaster—may arise from getting to know Noah Blackwood better? Probably not. I’ll have to file that under unfinished business for tomorrow—right next to one large cup of morning coffee.
I’m buried under what feels like an avalanche of chaos, not literal snow, but definitely the paperwork equivalent, when my phone starts buzzing on my desk. I glance at the caller ID and see it’s my sister, Eve. Wonderful. I’m neck-deep in sorting out this latest office predicament, and I really don’t have time to chat.
I pick up the phone, adopting my best no-nonsense voice. “Hey, sis. I’m kind of busy right now. Can I call you back after work?”
“I really need to talk to you now!” she insists, her voice a mix of pleading and just the tiniest hint of drama that makes me sigh. My older sister is nothing if not persistent.
I relent, hitting the speakerphone button so I can keep my hands free to search for the missing file that’s surely plotting its own demise at the bottom of my desk pile. “Okay, fine. You’re on speaker, and I’m buried right now, so talk fast, sis.”
The office is quiet since Noah is out schmoozing at some lunch benefit, so I figure I’m safe enough from eavesdropping ears.
“You’ve been avoiding my calls and texts,” Eve begins with that tone that tells me she’s about to dive into something major. “Are you coming home for Christmas?”
I rub my temples, searching my brain for an answer that isn’t just 'pffft,' which, to be honest, is pretty tempting. “I’m trying to see if my budget can handle the plane ticket. You know how it is.” Actually, she doesn’t. My sister owns her own art gallery in a small town filled with billionaires who love their expensive art.
“I can help you with the ticket,” she offers for what feels like the hundredth time, her generosity as earnest as ever.
“Grrrr, I told you no.” I shovel some papers to one side, uncovering a sticky note with the words Order toner!! underlined three times. Grossly underrated priorities. “I don’t want you to spend money on this. I’ll figure something out.”