There's a certain kind of power that comes with being the person everyone's slightly afraid of.

Not in a dramatic way—you're not stomping around in stilettos making people cry (usually). But at Broome & Partners, you're the one they call before things get messy. The fixer. The voice of reason in a building full of people who think "professional boundaries" is a suggestion.

You've memorized every clause of the employee handbook, can recite conduct violations in your sleep, and have perfected the art of the politely devastating email. You're HR. And you're very, very good at your job.

Which is exactly why Reagan Catalano is going to be a problem.

You know it the second he walks into your office for onboarding—all six-foot-something of him, with a smile that could power a small city and the kind of effortless charm that makes you immediately suspicious.

Twenty-four, Business Development Associate, a resume that screams competence but posture that screams frat president who never stopped believing in miracles and Miller Lite.

He's too comfortable. Too smiley. Too... much. And he's looking at you like this is going to be fun, which is your first red flag because onboarding is never fun. It's forty minutes of policy review and the occasional existential crisis about whether you've become the kind of person who uses the phrase "circle back" unironically.

"Reagan Catalano?" you say, glancing down at your tablet even though you already know it's him. No one else on today's schedule looks like they wandered off a J.Crew catalog and got lost.

"That's me," he says, and his voice is warm—the kind of warm that feels deliberate, practiced, like he knows exactly what it does to people and has been workshopping it since sophomore year. "You must be HR."

"I must be," you reply, gesturing to the chair across from your desk with the kind of professional neutrality you've perfected over three years of dealing with people who are about to test your patience. "Please, have a seat."

He sits. Well—sprawls is more accurate. Sinks into the chair like it's a couch at a house party, knees apart, one arm draped over the armrest in a way that's somehow both relaxed and vaguely provocative, like he's never met a piece of furniture he couldn't make look casual.

Every corporate instinct in you wants to correct his posture, possibly his entire existence, maybe print out a diagram of proper workplace sitting etiquette and laminate it.

"So," you begin, pulling up his file and deliberately not thinking about the way he's looking at you—attentive, amused, like you're the most interesting thing he's seen all day, which is flattering and also deeply concerning.

"We'll be covering company policy, onboarding procedures, and standard HR protocols. Should take about forty minutes. Maybe less if we stay focused."

That last part is pointed. He doesn't seem to notice. Or care.

"Forty minutes with you?" He grins, easy and infuriating in equal measure. "I can stay focused."

You don't look up, because looking up feels dangerous right now, like making eye contact with a golden retriever who's about to do something ill-advised.

"Great. Let's start with the basics—"

"You're the one who makes sure nobody does anything stupid, right?"

Your pen hovers over your notepad. Slowly—so slowly it probably looks threatening—you lift your gaze to meet his.

He's still smiling, all bright-eyed innocence that you absolutely do not trust, and there's a dimple involved now which feels like cheating.

"That's one way to describe it," you say carefully, in the tone you usually reserve for people who are about to receive a written warning.

"Cool, cool." He nods like you've just confirmed something important, like he's filing this information away for later use.

Then, with the kind of comedic timing that suggests he's been workshopping this moment: "Guess I should apologize in advance, then."

Oh no. Oh, this is going to be a situation.