Chapter 2 I Felt It ( Sabrina's Pov)

I spent the rest of the morning pretending I wasn’t combusting from the inside.

Which would’ve been easier if the walking, brooding source of my internal meltdown wasn’t thirty feet away behind a glass office that somehow made him even hotter in 4K.

Every time he moved, I felt it.

Every time he stood, I felt it.

Every time the hem of his white dress shirt tugged against his torso, I really felt it.

I swear, God was testing me that day.

Because Drake Peterson, CEO of Peterson Luxe, slayer of spreadsheets and sinner of souls, kept doing things he didn’t normally do.

Like loosening his tie.

And rolling up his sleeves.

And leaning back in his chair like he was posing for some “CEO thirst trap” calendar.

And every time he did, his eyes flicked up—

Right. At. Me.

I pretended not to notice.

But my pulse was out here sprinting the Olympics.

And then the real hell began.

12:40 PM — Lunch Hour That Wasn’t

“Sabrinaaaaa,” Myla sang from beside me, leaning on my cubicle wall. “Lunch? I want ramen. The good one. The one that has the broth that heals your trauma.”

I almost laughed.

Almost.

Except Drake chose that exact moment to walk out of his office.

And when I say walk, I mean glide, like the hallways were built specifically to worship his stride.

He stopped right by us.

“Ms. Mendoza,” he said, his voice low enough that my bones paid attention. “I’d like you to stay for lunch. We have a number of documents to process.”

Translation:

I’m not done messing with your head today.

Myla arched a brow at me with the first real smile of her day.

“Soooo… not coming?”

I cleared my throat. “Go ahead. Save me a seat next time.”

Myla shot me a suspicious look—

Not at me.

At him.

Because Drake was watching me with this expression that said he absolutely did not mean paperwork.

She walked off with a muttered, “I swear, every time he looks at you, my ancestors feel it.”

Same, girl. Same.

The second she disappeared around the corner, Drake moved closer.

Too close.

I felt the heat of him before I even turned.

“You didn’t eat breakfast,” he said in that quiet, accusing way he had, like he had personally witnessed the empty plate I left behind this morning.

“How do you know that?” I blinked.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he held up a small, sleek black container with silver lettering.

Blackbird Café.

The fancy one.

The expensive one.

The one you only go to when you want to impress someone—or apologize.

“I had lunch ordered for you,” he said simply.

“For me?”

Not for both of us.

“For the work you’ll be doing,” he said coolly, but his eyes softened for a split second.

A split second I almost imagined.

Almost.

He walked back into his office without waiting for a response.

Typical.

12:52 PM — His Office

Being in Drake’s office at noon felt illegal.

Sunlight spilled through the full glass windows, reflecting off the modern black marble table. Everything looked expensive. Controlled. Curated.

Minimalist.

Just like him.

“You can sit,” he said without looking up, typing away on his laptop.

“I normally sit.”

He paused.

Then tilted his head, just slightly, like he was amused by my tiny act of rebellion.

God help me.

I lowered into the chair across from his desk and he pushed the lunch container toward me using two fingers—long, elegant, sinful fingers that were not helping my sanity.

“You need to eat,” he said.

“You need to stop monitoring my eating habits like you’re my Fitbit,” I replied.

His jaw flexed—one small, barely-there twitch that meant I got to him.

Good.

He wasn’t the only one allowed to cause damage around here.

“Task,” he said after a beat, sliding a folder across the table. “Meetings, vendor updates, new suppliers. Read. Digest. Summaries by two PM.”

“And the lunch you so mysteriously procured?”

“Eat while working.”

“Yes, boss.”

And there it was—

A spark in his gaze.

Brief. Sharp. Like a match being struck.

“Say that again,” he murmured.

Oh no.

Absolutely not.

“I said—”

“No.” His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “The way you said it.”

I swallowed.

This man… this man was going to be the death of me.

“Boss,” I repeated, softer.

His chest rose.

Tightened.

Like the word hit him somewhere inconvenient.

He looked away deliberately, opening a drawer as if he needed the distance.

Control.

Always control.

But for the first time since I met him…

he didn’t have all of it.

1:24 PM — He Slips

I worked silently while he typed, the room thick with unspoken tension.

But then a notification binged on his phone.

A woman’s name flashed across the screen.

Someone I didn’t know.

London number.

And something in Drake’s expression shifted—so subtly I almost missed it.

But I didn’t.

A split-second flicker.

A tightening of the lips.

A shadow in his eyes.

Then—

He flipped the phone face down.

Like he wanted to bury the message itself.

I tried to pretend it didn’t affect me.

I tried to pretend I wasn’t reading into it.

But the moment changed him.

He became quieter.

Stiller.

Colder.

Which was ironic, because the room felt hotter.

Finally, he spoke.

“Ms. Mendoza.”

I looked up.

And that’s when it happened.

The first crack in the man everyone believed was unbreakable.

His eyes softened. Barely. But enough.

“Do you regret working for me?” he asked quietly.

Regret?

Working for him?

My pulse stumbled.

“I don’t regret it,” I said, too quickly.

Too honestly.

He breathed out slowly, like he’d been holding that breath longer than he should have.

“Good,” he murmured.

Then—so softly I almost thought I imagined it—

“I don’t regret choosing you.”

My heart slammed so hard against my ribs I nearly dropped my pen.

“Sir—”

He stood.

Walked around the desk.

And stopped right behind my chair.

His hand brushed the back of it—

not touching me, but near enough to feel his presence scorch my spine.

“When I hired you,” he said quietly, “I made a decision I shouldn’t have made.”

My breath hitched.

His voice lowered.

“But I’ve never once wanted to undo it.”

I froze.

Because the air around us…

Shifted.

Thickened.

Changed into something dangerous and intimate and impossible to walk away from.

My throat dried. “Drake…”

He inhaled sharply at the sound of his name—

like I’d crossed a line neither of us could pretend didn’t exist anymore.

And then—

A knock on the door.

We jerked apart like we’d been caught doing something sinful.

“Come in,” Drake said, voice deep and clipped, as if the moment had evaporated.

But it hadn’t.

It hung between us.

Heavy.

Electric.

Unavoidable.

The intern poked her head in.

“Sir? Your sister is here.”

His body stiffened.

Visibly.

Emotion flickered across his face—pure panic, pure annoyance, pure not now.

“I’ll be right there,” he said tightly.

When the intern left, he turned to me.

And for the first time since I walked into this company…

Drake Peterson looked uncertain.

“Stay after hours today,” he said.

Same voice.

Different meaning entirely.

My pulse jumped.

“Why?”

His jaw clenched.

“I need to… continue something with you.”

My lips parted. “Continue what?”

He didn’t look away this time.

Not even for a second.

“You know what.”

My entire body lit up.

But then he stepped back, walls slamming back into place.

“Later,” he murmured. “After the office is empty.”

Hook.

Line.

Sinker.

And before I could catch my breath, he was already walking away.