Page 11 of When Hearts Ignite
His long legs purposefully stride in my direction, which is along the path to his office. My lungs seize and an unknown thread of anticipation and exhilaration wraps tightly around my chest.
This is just nerves. After all, you need to impress him to secure a full-time offer.
I want to turn back toward the spreadsheets opened on my monitor, but my body refuses to obey, my eyes automatically tracking his movements.
Steven looks up from his phone, his eyes sweeping the room like a king inspecting his subjects before they pause on me.
My mouth dries, my heart threatening to escape my rib cage, and I freeze, ensnared by the molten gaze, which seems to see past my shoddy haircut and baggy clothing, unpeeling the layers to examine the deepest parts of me, parts even I don’t want to face.
He slows his movements, his eyes slowly drifting to my parted lips then back to my gaze, his cool countenance an unemotional art critic perusing galleries for his next acquisition, but I see the faintest spark in the amber pools, which disappears as quickly as it appeared.
A faint hum of electricity hangs in the air, and my muscles tense in anticipation.
I must be imagining things.
“Grace,” he murmurs, his voice deep, my name from his lips sounding intimate somehow, like this is how my name would sound on the lips of my lover as we’re tangled within bedsheets, and my traitorous heartbeat kicks up a notch, my skin feeling fevered.
He remembers my name.
Steven dips his head, a corner of his lips curving up slightly into a ghost of a smile, and he continues his way down the hallway before entering his office, disappearing from view.
The pounding in my chest fades into a dull thrum as the floor exhales a collective sigh of relief and conversations resume, punctuated by the occasional bursts of laughter. My computer pings incessantly as my inbox fills up.
I shake my head, my mind fuzzy from what could’ve only been a few quick seconds of interaction, and fevered, ridiculous thoughts. I blink and grab my mug, slowly lifting it to my mouth and flinch as the scalding tea I poured from the carafe in the break room moments ago singes my lips. My hands jerk and the tea sloshes onto the table with my cardigan taking the brunt of the impact. I groan at the mess I now have to clean up.
“Not your day today, huh?” a bright voice interrupts me as I dab my sweater with a tissue, helplessly watching the wet mark spread on the fabric. “Here. More napkins for you.” A wad of paper towels land on my desk from the cubicle on my right.
Jamie Chang, my cubicle neighbor, a bubbly first-year analyst at the firm, smiles at me sympathetically, her head poking above the glass wall. “At least it’s green tea. It shouldn’t stain.”
“I swear, I’m not normally this clumsy.” If anything, I’m the careful one in my family. Giving up on my sweater, I carefully blot the keyboard and surrounding surfaces, thankful I don’t have any papers or binders lying about. The last thing I need is Hayley being on my case again.
“Eh, it happens to the best of us. By the way, a bunch of us are going to Lunasia after work on Thursday for drinks and karaoke. Want to come?”
I pause my clean up and take in her warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners, a pen perched on her ear. She twirls a strand of black hair around her finger and grins at me. My chest warms, liking her instantly. Unlike some women I’ve met here who view others as threats or competition, Jamie seems nice and welcoming.
I wish I could go. I’ve heard so many good things about it. Lunasia is a hot new club slash karaoke bar a few streets over. It opened last month by the entertainment and hospitality empire, Fleur Entertainment, to cater to bankers and analysts needing to let out some steam after work, and their admission alone costs an arm and a leg. Plus, I don’t have anything appropriate to wear.
If I eat salads for a week, maybe I could go?
I blow out a sigh. “I don’t think I can, but maybe—”
The ringing of my desk phone interrupts me, and I practically jump in place, my arm close to knocking over the mug of tea again.
Damn it. What’s wrong with me today?
“This is Grace,” I answer without looking at the caller ID.
“Can you come into my office?” A deep, masculine voice greets me, the question posed as a command, the smooth timbre I’ve only heard twice before, with the last time being mere seconds ago.
Startled, I glance at the screen on the phone, noting the name Steven Kingsley, extension 3108, emblazoned in black and white.
“Yes, sir.”
Click. The line disconnects.
I stare at the receiver in my hand, stupefied, my heart beginning a lap around the track after the brief respite.
“Everything okay?” Jamie asks, her voice tinged with concern.
