Author's Preface
[Cont.]
[Annie]
The lobby clock reads 7:28 AM when the elevator doors slide open.
I've been standing near the glass entrance for ten minutes, clutching a lukewarm paper cup of tea and running on three hours of sleep.
Half the night, I kept thinking about what happened in the doorway.
Mostly the way he'd looked at me before stepping back.
I expect awkwardness or a quiet, loaded silence when we meet this morning.
Kai walks out of the elevator wearing a charcoal three-piece suit, his hair neatly combed back, his silver-rimmed glasses catching the harsh fluorescent lights of the lobby.
The feverish flush from last night is completely gone.
He looks annoyingly put together for someone who could barely stay awake last night.
"Annie," he says, stepping toward me with an even, unbothered stride.
Without slowing down, he hands me the sleek leather binder as he heads toward the revolving doors.
"The brand strategy review for Project Horizon was moved up fifteen minutes. Did the junior coordinators finish cross-referencing the press release drafts?"
I freeze for a fraction of a second before falling into step beside him.
"Yes," I say, keeping my voice flat. "The final campaign brief is on your tablet."
"Good." He pushes through the glass door into the cool morning air, already skimming his phone.
He doesn't mention the thermos. Or the coffee.
Or how close we'd been last night.
By morning, he's back to being my boss.
I feel a sharp, ridiculous surge of irritation—not at him, but at myself.
Apparently, I'm the only one who spent the night thinking about it.
[ *** ]
By 10 AM, we're crammed into the consultation room on the second floor of the city council center.
The space is absurdly narrow, cluttered with stacks of print proofs, market demographic files, and oversized foam boards for the Project Horizon campaign rollout.
Normally, working in tight quarters with Kai is second nature.
We've shared tiny desk spaces, cramped backseats, and chaotic press rooms for weeks without thinking twice about it.
But today, I'm suddenly aware of every bit of space between us.
I'm sitting at the small wooden table, typing up an emergency media response memo, when Kai steps up beside my chair.
"Section four of the PR timeline needs a tighter schedule," he says smoothly, leaning down over my left shoulder to point at the screen.
He's just reviewing the copy.
Nothing unusual.
Still, my fingers stop moving anyway.
The sleeve of his suit jacket lightly grazes my shoulder as his hand rests on the edge of the desk.
I shift slightly, reaching for a highlighter I don't need.
Kai doesn't seem to notice.
He taps his pen against the desk twice, his eyes scanning the paragraph. "Rephrase the second line to emphasize the launch date, then print it."
"Got it," I say, keeping my eyes on the screen.
[ *** ]
At noon, Mr. Anthony steps into the room carrying a tray of drinks.
He sets a black coffee in front of Kai and places a cup of tea beside my laptop—mixed with just enough milk to turn it a pale, light amber.
"The city council media liaison takes their recess in ten minutes," Mr. Anthony says, checking his watch. "Also, Mr. Sterlings, the alumni association called again regarding the annual university networking gala next month."
Kai takes a slow sip of his coffee, not looking up from the campaign budget spread across the table. "Decline it. I haven't had the patience for institutional mixers since senior year."
I look up at him.
"You look just like you did at my first university gathering."
The words come back to me.
He doesn't look up from the marketing deck.
"Kai," I start, the question slipping out before I can censor myself. "About the—"
His phone hums against the wood, vibrating loudly.
He glances at the screen, cuts me off with a brief, apologetic raise of his index finger, and picks up.
"Sterlings," he answers smoothly, turning toward the window. "Yes, Councilman. We're ready with the amended campaign filings."
I let the question die and sink back into my chair, clenching my jaw.
[ *** ]
During the afternoon presentation, we sit side-by-side at the briefing table while the city delegates review our media strategy.
I manage the pitch materials and pull demographic reports, but every few minutes, my eyes drift sideways.
I've worked under Kai Sterlings for weeks now, but suddenly, I'm noticing details I've somehow overlooked:
The subtle way his posture shifts right before he counters a difficult question.
His glasses always slip slightly when he's reading something for too long.
And when he's actually working—not delegating or talking—he rolls his sleeves back without thinking about it.
None of this is new.
He's always been like this.
So why am I suddenly noticing all of this now?
[ *** ]
By 4 PM, the media strategy meeting wraps up in our favor.
The rain outside has completely stopped, leaving the stone steps of the city council building wet and reflective.
John holds the rear passenger door open by the curb.
Kai walks beside me, his long coat unbuttoned, his posture relaxed now that the pressure of the briefing is over.
He stops near the car and turns toward me, holding out his hand.
"Hand me the master Project Horizon media file, Annie. I'll take it back to the office."
"Right," I say.
I pull the thick leather folder from my bag and extend it toward him.
But as he takes the edge, his fingers brush against mine.
I pull my hand back too fast, my grip loosening so quickly that the folder almost slips from his fingers.
Kai catches the folder with his other hand before it hits the wet pavement, and when I look up, he's watching me.
Neither of us says anything.
"Good work today," he says softly. "We'll drop you at the main garage so you can grab your car. You look like you need some sleep."
He steps into the back seat of the car, and John closes the door behind him.
[ *** ]
By 5 PM, John drops us at the main city office underground garage where our personal vehicles are parked.
He takes the heavy files to the legal department, while Kai steps aside to check an incoming message on his phone.
I walk to the secondary staff lifts to grab my bag from the locker room and find Chris and Amanda there as well.
As soon as the elevator doors slide shut, Chris leans against the handrail and crosses his arms, looking at me with a smirk.
"Okay, spill," Chris says, swinging his key fob around his finger. "What actually happened between you two in these three days?"
I adjust the strap of my shoulder bag, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor indicator lights above the door. "Nothing happened. The car got stuck at the site, so we had to stay overnight."
Chris raises an eyebrow.
"At a hotel," I add. "Separately. Obviously."
His smirk gets worse.
"Kai got sick, the trip got delayed, and then we had the injunction hearing. That's it."
"Right. That's it." Chris's mouth twitches.
"Don't start," I say, giving him a glare.
"Right. Work," Chris says, nudging Amanda with his elbow. "Which explains why you've been acting weird all afternoon."
"I'm just tired, Chris," I say, a little too quickly.
Amanda looks up from her tablet, her eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in the way I'm gripping my bag.
"You've been quiet since we got back," Amanda says. "You barely touched lunch."
"I ate," I say, stepping back an inch as the elevator doors ding open on the staff parking level. "I'm fine. I just want to get to my car and go home."
"Uh-huh," Chris drawls, stepping out into the garage ahead of us. "You usually complain the entire way back about Sterlings' scheduling. Today you haven't said his name once. It's weird."
I don't answer.
I just pull my keys out of my pocket and walk toward the staff parking lane, eager to put some distance between us before Chris digs any further.
[ *** ]
The underground garage is cool and quiet, the dull hum of the exhaust fans echoing off the concrete pillars.
Amanda and Chris head toward the far aisle, their voices fading into the background as they bid me goodbye.
I reach my car, unlock the driver's side, and toss my laptop bag onto the passenger seat.
As I reach for the door handle, the sharp, rhythmic click of heels on pavement cuts through the quiet.
"Annie?"
I turn around and find Lucy standing near the pillar directly opposite my spot.
She's in a fitted cream trench coat, a designer handbag on her arm, her dark hair still perfectly in place despite the damp weather.
"Lucy," I say, holding the car door open. "Hi. What are you doing down here?"
"Oh, I was just upstairs dropping off a file," Lucy says, taking a few light steps toward me.
She smiles, her eyes briefly dropping to my rumpled blazer.
"I saw the company car pull in earlier. Is Kai still around? It looked like a brutal schedule today."
She knew where we'd been?
"He's over near the executive spots," I say, stepping slightly closer to my open door. "We just finished archiving the briefs."
"That's good." She adjusts the strap of her handbag smoothly. "He always overcommits during campaign launches. I keep telling him he needs to actually pace himself."
Before I can respond, the heavy fire exit door near the main elevator bank pushes open.
Kai walks out, his coat over his arm, his sleeves still rolled up to his forearms.
He stops when he sees her, and I notice his jaw set.
"Lucy," Kai says, his voice low. "What are you doing down here?"
Lucy turns to him, her smile softening into something familiar, though her posture stays composed. "I had a meeting nearby, Kai. I told you I might stop by if the council review wrapped up early."
He doesn't smile.
His eyes flick toward me before returning to Lucy.
"You didn't need to come down to the garage," Kai says, his tone strangely cold.
"It wasn't a problem," Lucy says softly, stepping into his space and lightly placing two fingers on his forearm. "We can talk about Sunday dinner on the way."
He looks down at her hand on his arm, then back at me.
"Annie," Kai says, his tone stiff and formal. "Go home. We'll review the council follow-ups tomorrow morning."
"Goodnight, Mr. Sterlings," I say.
He gives a single, abrupt nod before walking with Lucy toward his dark car parked near the exit ramp.
He opens the door for her and gets into the driver's seat without looking back toward my aisle.
I stand by my open car door, listening to the engine hum as his car pulls up the ramp and disappears into the street traffic above.
I pull my keys out, slide into the driver's seat, and shut the door behind me.
I grip the steering wheel with both hands, staring straight ahead at the blank concrete wall before turning the key in the ignition.