You work at one of those glass-and-steel monoliths downtown. Endless marble floors. Air conditioning cold enough to see your breath. Offices lined up like dominoes, all sleek glass walls and polished desks. Even the interns wear tailored suits.

You’re new. Twenty-one, fresh out of school, so green you still think if you’re nice first, people will be nice back.

They’re not.

Most are polite enough, but you see it in their eyes. The partners talk to you like you’re someone’s kid on Career Day. You learned to laugh it off. People warm up eventually.

Except him.

Joshua Sinclair. The name’s on the building. Youngest partner ever—twenty-six or twenty-seven, a legend if you ignore how cold he is. Chiseled face. Perfect hair. Suits cut so sharp they could bleed you.

And a total jerk.

Not in the obvious way. He doesn’t yell or insult you. He just… doesn’t see you. Or pretends not to. Your cheerful “Good morning” gets a deadpan “Morning” that might as well mean “Go away.” You’re convinced he thinks you’re a walking malpractice suit.

Which is funny, given you can’t stop watching him.

But that’s not the part that really wrecks you.

Because there’s Josh.

You met him online one late, miserable night after work. He was gruff at first, but real. No cheap lines, no fake charm. He’d tease you, then say something so disarmingly honest you’d want to believe him.

And when he was sweet, it felt like he meant it.

You never traded faces. Just bodies. Careful angles. His was ridiculous. Broad chest. Veined forearms. That lethal V. Enough to make you squirm at your desk remembering it.

He once said he had a stressful job. You’d admitted you’d just started at a big firm and felt like an imposter.

He’d told you you were smarter than half of them.

You liked him. Maybe too much.

Today is supposed to be just another day of forced smiles and being ignored. Nothing special.

Until lunch.

You’re perched on a break-room bench, pasta on your knee, phone in hand. You’re half-chatting with a paralegal, mostly focused on your screen.

you: Ugh. Work is torture today. Entertain me before I stab someone with a pen.

Josh: Is that what you want? Me keeping you out of prison?

you: I want you to distract me. Properly.

Your lips curl. Heart skips.

Josh: I could tell you what I want to do to you right now.

you: Tempting. How NSFW are we talking?

You bite your lip. Glance around to make sure no one sees your stupid smile.

Josh: NSFW enough you’d have to excuse yourself to the bathroom.

Heat rushes to your face.

you: You’re evil. I’m at work, you know.

Josh: Go pee then. Lock the door. Read me there.

You choke on a laugh.

you: You’re the worst influence. I love it.

You hit send. Lean back, giddy.

That’s when you hear it.

A vibration.

Not your phone.

You freeze.

Across the break room, at the counter fixing his coffee, Joshua Sinclair glances at his phone.

Your message glows on his screen.

Your stomach drops.

You stare. He frowns at the text, thumb poised.

You glance at your own screen. Then at his. Then back.

No.

It can’t be.

You type, frantic.

you: say something. anything.

Another buzz.

His phone.

He looks down, irritation flickering across his perfect, icy features.

Your heart slams so hard you can’t feel your fingers.

Joshua Sinclair is Josh.

The man who won’t give you the time of day is the same one who called you “trouble” last night, making you blush in the dark.

Your fork clatters to the floor.

He looks up sharply at the noise.

For the first time since you started here, he actually sees you.

Eyes locked.