Summer Worthington doesn't hate her corporate job, per se. It's her god-awful boss, Mr. Griffin - or, as her roommates like to call him, Mr. Grouchy - who's the problem. He's cruel, cold-hearted, and the most attractive man she's ever seen.
As his p...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
ON WEDNESDAY NIGHT, I WORK until seven o'clock, which is almost a new record for me. The only other time I've stayed back later than this was when it was my birthday.
Shaking off god-awful memories of that day, I come to a stop in the empty hallway and rummage around in my handbag. I withdraw the lanyard that has the spare key and grey fob Krystal gave me when I returned to Elevated. I've locked up a million times before, but it's been a while, and the last thing I want is to set off the alarm, or not secure the building properly, and Max gets called.
It's never happened after I've locked up, but I know some of my other colleagues are on a first-name basis with the security company.
Distracted, I almost miss it as I head towards the exit—the soft light spilling out from the double wooden doors. Immediately, it pulls my attention towards Max's office and holds it, because it dawns on me that he's still here.
I could've sworn I was the only one working late.
Even Barb popped her head into my office and said goodnight over an hour ago.
For some silly reason, my heart starts pounding like I'm running a marathon, even though I'm standing perfectly still.
I think about not disturbing him. I think about the safer option—going home and watching the finale of what's quickly become my favourite K-drama versus spending any amount of time with Max when we're the only people in the building. In the end, I only hesitate for a split second before I tap my fist gently against his door. When I hear his muffled "Come in," I push it open.
As per usual, he's tucked behind that fancy desk, preoccupied with work. Tonight, he's poured over a sea of sprawled-out documents. Max is so immersed in what he's doing he doesn't acknowledge my presence right away. I'd be offended if I wasn't the same. When I'm in the zone like this with my art, I'm lucky to even register my basic needs—to the point where I sometimes forget to eat—let alone what's happening around me.
When he glances up and notices that it's me, the heat of his gaze travels over me slowly. There's the tiniest of smiles, his expression softening slightly, and then his features tighten and darken. That grumpy, scowly exterior is back in full force, and I try not to take it personally.
If Max is surprised to find me inside his office this late on a Wednesday night, he hides it well.
Probably because his whole body is vibrating with palpable tension—and not the good kind. His frown is so pronounced now it deepens and crinkles the lines on his forehead. I don't think I've ever seen him so stressed, and in an industry like marketing where there are curveballs thrown at you every day, that's saying a lot. I approach him warily, feeling a little confused as to why he's even here, working so late, all by himself. After shadowing him for eight months, I know him well enough to know this is not normal Max behaviour.
