Chapter 4; Too close Too soon

BELLA

Monday morning came faster than I wanted.

I stood in front of the mirror in my old bedroom, smoothing the front of my charcoal pencil skirt for the third time.

 The white blouse was crisp, fitted just enough to feel professional without crossing into dangerous territory. 

I’d left the top button undone barely and told myself it was because I hated feeling choked. 

Not because I remembered the way Alex’s eyes had darkened at the barbecue when he looked at me.

I pulled my hair into a low ponytail, added a touch of lip gloss, and grabbed my bag.

Downstairs, Mom had coffee waiting. Dad was already in his suit, scrolling emails on his phone.

“Ready for your first day?” he asked without looking up.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

He glanced at me then, smiled. “You’ll do great. Alex will show you around. He’s got your desk set up next to his open plan now, makes collaboration easier.”

My stomach did a slow flip.

“Next to him?” I kept my voice even.

“Yeah. You’ll be working closely on the 

Thompson campaign anyway. Might as well be convenient.”

Convenient.

Right.

I forced a smile. “Sounds good.”

The drive to downtown Seattle was quiet. Dad talked about the new office layout, the espresso machine upgrade, how the team had grown since I left for college.

 I nodded at all the right places, but my mind was stuck on one thing: Alex. In the same space. Every day. Close enough to touch.

The building was glass and steel, twenty floors of sleek corporate shine. We rode the elevator up in silence, my reflection staring back at me with nervous eyes, flushed cheeks. I looked away.

When the doors opened on the fifteenth floor, the open-plan office hit me like a wave of sound and motion. Phones ringing, keyboards clicking, people moving between glass-walled meeting rooms. The air smelled like fresh coffee and printer ink.

Dad led me through the maze of desks. Heads turned. Smiles. Quick “welcome back” waves from people I vaguely remembered.

Then we reached the corner.

There he was.

Alex stood by a large L-shaped desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, talking to a woman with a tablet. He looked up as we approached.

Our eyes locked.

The room didn’t disappear this time. It just narrowed. Everything else blurred at the edges.

He ended his conversation mid-sentence, gave the woman a quick nod, and walked over.

“Bella.” His voice was calm. Professional. But there was something underneath it, something low and careful.

“Morning, Alex.”

Dad clapped him on the shoulder. “She’s all yours. Show her the ropes. I’ve got a call at ten.”

Alex nodded. “Got it.”

Dad gave me a quick side-hug. “Knock ’em dead, kiddo.”

And then he was gone.

Leaving me alone with Alex.

He gestured toward the desks. “Your spot’s right here.”

My desk was maybe four feet from his. Side by side. No cubicle walls. Just open air between us.

I set my bag down slowly. “Cozy.”

He gave a small, almost-smile. “Robert thought it would help with the handoff on projects.”

I nodded. “Makes sense.”

It didn’t make sense. It felt like torture.

He cleared his throat. “Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”

We started walking.

He pointed out the break room first shiny espresso machine, fridge stocked with every kind of sparkling water imaginable. Then the copy room, the supply closet, the small conference pods with glass doors. 

Every time we passed someone, he introduced me: “This is Bella Harper, our new marketing lead.” They smiled, welcomed me, and shook my hand.

But I barely heard them.

I was too aware of him.

The way he walked half a step ahead, broad shoulders filling the space. The faint scent of his cologne when he turned to point something out. The way his forearm flexed when he gestured. The low timbre of his voice when he spoke quietly so only I could hear.

We reached the far end of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Puget Sound. Gray water, gray sky, ferries cutting slow paths.

“Best view in the building,” he said.

I stepped closer to the glass. “It’s beautiful.”

He stood beside me. Not touching. But close. Close enough that if I shifted my weight, my arm would brush his.

Neither of us moved.

Silence stretched.

I could feel my heartbeat in my throat.

He spoke first. Quiet. “Are you nervous?”

“A little,” I admitted. “First day and all.”

“You’ll be fine.” He turned slightly toward me. 

“You always were quick on your feet.”

I looked up at him. Mistake.

His eyes were on my face steady, searching. For a second I thought he might say something else. Something real.

Instead he stepped back. “Let’s head back. I’ll walk you through the Thompson files.”

We returned to our desks.

He pulled up a chair next to mine close. Too close. Our knees almost touched under the shared surface.

He opened the shared drive, clicked into the project folder. Spreadsheets, mood boards, client notes.

I leaned in to see the screen.

Our shoulders brushed.

I froze.

He froze.

For two full seconds we stayed like that bodies angled toward each other, heat radiating where we touched.

Then he cleared his throat again. Moved his chair back an inch.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine.

My skin was buzzing. My pulse was loud in my ears. Every time he scrolled, his forearm flexed near mine. Every time he explained something, his voice dropped lower, like he was talking only to me.

We went through the client brief. Goals. Target demo. Current campaign performance.

I tried to focus. I really did.

But my brain kept noticing stupid things.

The way his fingers moved on the mouse was long, strong.

The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

The way his shirt pulled tight across his chest when he leaned forward.

I crossed my legs. Uncrossed them. I tried to breathe normally.

He glanced at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just… taking it all in.”

He nodded. But his eyes lingered a second too long on my mouth.

I swallowed.

We kept going.

An hour passed like that forced proximity, careful distance, stolen glances.

At one point he reached across me to grab a notepad from my side of the desk. His arm brushed my chest. Barely. Accidentally.

I sucked in a breath.

He froze mid-reach.

Our faces were inches apart.

I could see the flecks of green in his blue eyes. The tiny scar above his eyebrow I’d never noticed before.

“Sorry,” he said again. Voice rough.

I didn’t move. “It’s okay.”

He didn’t move either.

For a heartbeat we stayed there locked in place, breathing the same air.

Then someone called his name from across the room. A junior account manager with a question.

He pulled back like he’d been burned.

I exhaled shakily.

He stood. “I’ll be right back.”

He walked away.

I stared at the screen, not seeing anything.

My hands were trembling.

When he came back five minutes later, he sat in his own chair. A little farther this time.

We worked in silence for a while.

Professional. Polite.

But the tension didn’t leave.

It hung between us like smoke.

Every glance felt loaded.

Every brush of fingers when passing a pen felt electric.

By lunch he suggested we grab something from the café downstairs.

I said yes.

We rode the elevator together.

Empty.

Just us.

He stood against the wall. I stood against the opposite one.

We didn’t speak.

But I felt his eyes on me the whole way down.

When the doors opened, he gestured for me to go first.

I stepped out.

He followed.

And even in the crowded lobby, with people everywhere, it still felt like we were the only two people in the world.

I didn’t know how I was going to survive this.

Not when every second near him made me want to close the distance instead of keep it.

Not when I could still feel the ghost of his arm across my chest.

Not when I knew deep down he felt it too.